


Shard Eaters

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 63,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampire AU, set in London, 1880's. Schuldig, City Elder of the London Vampires, becomes embroiled in a deadly game of cat and mouse when a clan of Felidae move into the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shard Eaters

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, unedited, uploading it because people still keep bugging me for my old Weiss Kreuz Stuff. Read at your own risk. Seriously, I wrote this like...10 years ago. There will be flowery language of doom and other things. Also, vampires.

**Shard Eaters**

 

**Prologue**

 

In 1886, England was a dark, dirty country that did not so much hide its grime but flaunted it. Tightly held in the grip of industrialisation, England’s capital London knew best how to make dirt look good. It wasn’t Dickens’s London anymore, much of its flair and magic lost to cold science and progress that left little space for dreams, but you could still find the spark in the eyes of the children as they stared up at a perpetually dark sky. Railway tracks and coal ovens left more marks on London than the monarchy in all its glory and self-righteousness. The smog lay over the city like a shroud, rivalling the famous London Fog for victims and admirers both.

 

Two years later, the monster known to the world as Jack the Ripper would tear into the stained populace of Whitechapel High Street, leaving behind a trail of death and blood that sought its likes in cruelty and mystery. For now, though, London’s East End still thrived on poverty and crime, not blood, adding its share of screams and death to nights so dark even the flickering lights of the gas and oil lamps provided no shelter from its terrors. The monsters that lived there could easily have rivalled Jack, if not in blood thirst then in ruthlessness. For now, they were safe in their private hells. Jack was still a distant dream in the mind of a man whose face would never be known to the world, but whose deeds would survive the centuries.

 

Schuldig was in love with London, and sometimes dreamed that the city would survive even the greatest wars and catastrophes that were to come. Like a fantastic Babylon built in the wrong time and place, London gave birth to new things every day, fascinating him with an endless stream of novelties he could try. He liked the eerie, wrong and distorted sounds that came from a gramophone as much as the classic performances of the orchestra in the royal park of Buckingham Palace and Regent’s Park. He followed the almost daily reports about new medical wonders, sometimes even frequenting the publicly performed operations in the hospitals. He watched the people in Hyde Park, in particular Speaker’s Corner, and listened to their wild theories and end of the world prophecies with mundane fascination. Humans never failed to entertain him.

 

He lived near Covent Garden, in beautiful and very new Shaftesbury Avenue which had been opened to the public barely two months ago. Before, he had lived at Covent Garden, namely in Henrietta Street just to the left of the Piazza, one of London’s busiest centres with its wholesale market. Lately though, a lot of shady figures had made Covent Garden their home, deducting from the peace and quiet - and lastly, the rich and wealthy populace - Schuldig cherished so. There had not been as much dirt in and around Covent Garden as in his favourite hunting ground, the East End, which was another reason why he had loved his small but classy apartment on the second floor of a Victorian-styled house.

 

Shaftesbury Avenue called to him with its promise of theatrical performances and never ending stream of tourists. The great theatres that would later attract an equal crowd of tourists and locals were not yet built, but Schuldig could see them in the eyes of the street performers and tavern dancers when they acted out Shakespeare’s comedies and the Greek tragedies on small, illicit stages. There was yet another reason why a move to Shaftesbury Avenue had its merits: a young gentleman by the name of Brad Crawford lived there, in the very same building Schuldig moved into. Not as interested in the theatre performances, Crawford chose Shaftesbury Avenue because of its proximity to Charing Cross Road. With its unnumbered little antiquity shops and bookstores, Charing Cross Road had another name in Crawford’s vocabulary: Paradise. He was an avid reader and trader in rare books. He was also an avid dancer and equally enjoyed partaking and watching, busying himself with picking out the bad dancers when the music stopped playing. He called it his very subjective good deed of the night, something that amused Schuldig to no end.

 

Living in London, if one wanted to live well, was expensive. Aside from a rather generous inheritance he had salvaged from a youth in feudal Europe - his father had been a well-to do merchant in the ancient city of Cologne who married the daughter of a local duke whose roots could be traced back to the Emperor himself - Schuldig had acquired quite a fortune over the years, both as a hunter and gatherer. Those he took from would not need it anymore; pearls, gold, expensive stones and other odds and ends lay well-preserved in several accounts of the immortal Rothschild bank, from where he could draw the needed amount anytime. He spoke French, English and Russian along with his native German dialect and offered his service of translation to several writers who paid him well if they could afford it. If they could not, Schuldig made a bargain with them that would ensure him a fifth of their written work’s proceeds. He had other, shadier means of income he could rely on, but London was a prospering city and the times where a Vampire had to steal from the dead in order to pay rent were over.

 

The Age of Enlightenment had indeed brought light into the medieval darkness he had known for so long. Schuldig read the works of the contemporary philosophers and compared them to the works of the Greek philosophers, admiring mankind for the process he had not believed them capable of. The Dark Ages had been what their name indicated: long, dark, and dreadful. He knew what they had been like, having lived for the longest time as a traveller through most of the European continent, the ‘Old World’ as it was generally called by his kind. Then he came to London for the first time - on a whim, rather - and watched the thousand lights of the city shine into the night. He sometimes stood on the rooftop of their house, still, watching the lights. Crawford would often join him up there, and they would talk softly, Vampire to Vampire.

 

“It’s a good thing you came back from America,” Schuldig would say. “I’ve missed you.”

 

Crawford, dressed impeccably in a gentleman’s black suit and crisp white shirt as was the fashion style of this age, would rake a hand through his raven hair, dark blue eyes glowing with the reflections of a thousand flickering gas lamps, and say, “America is many things but I wouldn’t call it home. I’ve missed you too.”

 

They could be sentimental predators if the occasion was right.

 

Crawford and Schuldig had met by chance in 1646, residing in the picturesque and quite informal Parisian household of a French nobleman to whom they were both acquainted. Their friendship had had a rather bloody start - both invited guests of the foppish young nobleman, whose debauchery and decadent parties were famous in the circles of the rich back then, they recognized each other for what they were: two predators in the same hunting ground. Instead of being at each other’s throat, they struck a strange deal that ensured they would both survive the party. Schuldig started at one end, Crawford at the other; they painted the walls and the floor red where they met in the middle, sated like lions that had happened upon a herd of legless, fat antelopes. It was not unheard of that two of their kind hit it off so well from the very beginning. Most Vampires, aside from the lust for blood, had quite a lot in common. Schuldig and Crawford shared a love for antiquities, luxury, blood and adventure.

 

Their paths forked again after they bloodied the luxurious French house but they met several times in the following century. In 1720, they boarded a majestic cruiser en route to America. It was the first time Schuldig left his native Europe. Crawford was more than happy to show him the country of _his_ birth. They had a glorious time along the coastal cities and stayed together for nearly sixty years until, in 1776, Schuldig boarded yet another ship in Louisiana’s New Orleans and went on the long way back home. He arrived just in time to clap at Robert Walpole’s appointment as England’s first prime minister and read about Britain’s loss of American colonial territory brought on by the Declaration of Independence.

 

Crawford arrived in London in 1802, the year the Stock Exchange was formally established. Having no interest in stock markets, Crawford nevertheless fell in love with the prospering city. He stayed.

 

In the late spring of 1886, Schuldig moved into the house on Shaftesbury Avenue. Half a year later, Crawford proposed that they buy the house. Schuldig did not consider the idea for long. They had enough money between them to buy ten houses and live well for several lifetimes. Why not indulge once? He had just settled into the apartment on the last floor beneath the roof - the curtains before the French windows of their living room blowing gently in the first chilly autumn breezes, the stench of coal and dirt faint beneath the smell of wet earth - when Crawford’s annoyed “What?” sounded through his open bedroom door.

 

*********

**Chapter One**

*********

 

_Peace, peace, she cannot hear_

_Lyre or sonnet._

_All my life’s buried here_

_Heap earth upon it._

\- Oscar Wilde

 

Vampires are curious by nature; Schuldig had no inhibitions to wander through the tastefully furnished hallway and interrupt Crawford’s conversation in the living room. A scantily clad female lounged on their expensive green velvet couch - this was the day and age when a woman who showed the barest hint of cleavage was automatically deemed a whore - and smoked a black cigarette pinched between lace-gloved fingers. Christine de Chanel, as was her stage name these days, had been an actress for most of her several lives; her current existence on London’s stages had brought her to Schuldig’s attention, and now she was a frequent guest in the house on Shaftesbury Avenue.

 

Christine had dark, auburn tresses and sharp grey eyes set over a generous mouth habitually painted a deep crimson. Originally hailing from Ireland, she had a fierce temper and could be as cruel and unforgiving as death itself. She smiled at Schuldig as he walked into the living room and extended her hand; he caressed the inside of her wrist with the tips of his fingers and sat down on the broad arm of the couch.

 

“You’re a miracle of nature, Schuldig. Seeing you always lightens my nights.”

 

He took the compliment with a smile. Christine had tried to work her way into his bed ever since they had met; her methods ranged from obvious to subtle to brutally blatant and never failed to amuse him. It was a game between them. He had not made up his mind yet if he should eventually give in to her. She was beautiful, but it was a beauty he liked to admire from a distance. There was something in her eyes that let him know she could break his heart. For now he was content to tempt fate once in a while.

 

“Christine just told me that we have newcomers in London,” Crawford sat in the easy chair next to tall French windows, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. His expression was frozen in what Schuldig liked to call his ‘predator’s glare’ - eyes slightly narrowed, a mean twist to his lips. On the antique table to his left, a pair of fine white gloves lay neatly folded, ready to be put to use. “Tell him, Christine.”

 

The actress swept her hair back and revealed one perfectly white and round shoulder, settling herself more comfortably against the pillows on the couch. “We seem to have an infestation of cats.”

 

“Felidae?”

 

“The very same. Our little brothers and sisters arrived on a ship some two months ago and have settled down in Mayfair since.” She brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. The blue fumes swathed her even, pale face and wandered up toward the ceiling. “I learned it by accident, really. I was walking down Piccadilly when I saw them standing at a street corner, four of them all dressed in black rags, their eyes all but eating me alive when I came closer.” Dramatically, Christine widened her eyes, growled, and then deflated quickly, smoothing an invisible crease out of her skirt. “They were quite polite. I asked them what they were doing here and they told me they now lived in Mayfair and had been doing so for two months almost. Quite disturbing, if you ask me.”

 

The gentle breeze disturbed the blue fumes of Christine’s cigarette and stirred the curtains before the windows. Schuldig pondered her words, picking at his hair. Christine’s description of the Felidae as their ‘little brothers and sisters’ was a dramatic understatement - of all three Dark Breeds, the catkin were the oldest and often considered the most vicious. Schuldig knew they lived in clans whose numbers often rose into the hundreds, led by a single Felidae whose word was the law among the others.

 

“It is uncommon that an entire clan suddenly appears here,” Crawford said, his eyes lingering on Schuldig. “While I wouldn’t quite call it disturbing news, I’d say it’s definitely interesting. I’ve not seen hair or whisker of one of them yet. They aren’t usually that...inconspicuous.”

 

“Mayfair, you say?” Schuldig turned to Christine. “That’s unusual. Mayfair is the playground of the rich and famous” - and here Christine smiled, because she lived close by - “and not the sand box of the cats. I’d say that their arrival can’t have gone unnoticed, but I wonder why we haven’t heard anything else yet.”

 

Aside from living in clans, the Felidae were hunters and said to be even blood-thirstier than the Vampires. They did not live on blood alone but needed meat as well, and like the Wer their tastes ran toward human meat once in a while. Schuldig shuddered to think what an entire clan of Felidae could do to a distinguished society like the one living in Mayfair. Soon the Georgian houses on Chesterfield Street and the brick buildings on Mount Row would be awash with blood and ringing with the echoes of screams.

 

Yet it apparently had been two months already and the London Times had not reported any gruesome killings yet, aside from the usual drama playing itself out on the less distinguished streets. Schuldig rose and walked to the window, looking out at the dark sky before he let his eyes wander over the people drifting along Shaftesbury Avenue. It was a few hours until midnight.

 

“I can see what you’re thinking,” Crawford said behind his back, his voice ringing with barely hidden amusement. “Remember that we have cards for Christine’s performance of ‘Ophelia’ tonight.”

 

“And you’d better not miss it!” Christine was a performer at heart; even her protest seemed staged. “I’ve worked so hard at this part and I want to show off to you two.”

 

Schuldig heard her rise from the couch and approach him, the taffeta of her wide skirts rustling. She slung her arm around his and gripped his hand. “Please come?”

 

“All right,” he said with a sigh, “But it had better be worth it. I’ll bring eggs.”

 

Christine giggled and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He gave Crawford a suffering glance over the top of her head and received a wide grin. Crawford picked his gloves up from the table and pulled them on, perfecting the illusion of English gentleman he presented to the world of the mortals.

 

“We should hunt before we pay homage to Christine tonight,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

 

\---

 

Halfway through the performance, Schuldig slipped out of the small theatre and collected his coat at the entrance. Christine would be furious if she noticed at all, but his curiosity had been piqued and that which was usually described as a cat’s deadly habit now drew him toward Mayfair.

 

London had been his home for so many years now that Schuldig considered the city _his_ , along with every single inhabitant. There currently lived fourteen Vampires in London and its suburbs. As he crossed Piccadilly Circus with its imposing buildings around the plaza in the middle, Schuldig watched the mortals, on foot or in carriages, on their way back home from the theatres and other places of entertainment. Here and there, a less well-fed and scrubbed face stood out amid the masses, eyes dark with hunger and burning with greed as the prostitutes and beggars stood at the curb or hid in the archways of the houses. Normally the seedier populace of London kept to what were their appointed hideouts, but with the first tentative breaths of winter on the wind it was not unusual that their hunger drove them into the parts of London that were reserved for more ‘noble’ folks.

 

Beggars and prostitutes were what Schuldig considered ‘cheap meals’ because they were easy to find and easier to kill, their blind need for money, their diseases and despair often making them blind to dangers a fed and cautious person might have seen. He loved them because no one missed them. It was not unusual for a prostitute to disappear from her appointed road and if the body was hidden well enough no one would miss her or ask questions. London’s East End was ruled by ruthless street gangs whose methods of reign often appeared crueller to him than his very own murderous nature.

 

They all lived in London, they all were his to feed on, to live next to; the beggars, the prostitutes, the noble gentlemen and ladies in their carriages, the street vendors and performers. Even the cutthroats and thieves were his. Schuldig was equal-opportunity when it came to satiating his lust for blood. He made no difference between rich and poor; the difference lay in the victims themselves, in their struggle, their unique taste, and their alluring mortal shells. Even prostitutes could be beautiful, no matter how emaciated they were. Some of the Irish women, their mothers driven from their homeland in the harsh winter of 1847, were so captivating with their raw, wild beauty that they could rival any noble lady’s looks. Schuldig had once caught one and brought her to the house on Shaftesbury Avenue, keeping her alive and well for two weeks, just to hear her voice as she spoke of the hills and plains she came from.

 

He walked on and soon came to Green Park, the lights of Buckingham Palace shining through the trees in the distance. He noticed the difference in the air at once - the senses of all Dark Breeds were preternaturally sharp and Schuldig had made sure that his stayed sharp despite the easy life he had - and turned into Berkeley Street, sniffing as he walked into the heart of Mayfair. The tall, lovingly kept houses on either side of the street emitted an aura of wealth, safety and power, but here and there he saw the shadow of a mortal linger behind the curtains, staring out into the night. It was not unusual that a more sensitive mortal would pick up what to Schuldig smelled like an expensive, exotic perfume.

 

As he neared Bond Street with its luxurious shops, he picked up a different scent that was by far more familiar. It was not until he reached Brook Street and in particular the famous hotel _Claridge’s_ that he could determine where the scent came from; in a narrow street a few houses down from the hotel, a broken gaslight lamp giving a fitting eerie illumination to the scene, he found what he was looking for.

 

They were three, two females and a male, bent over the small body of a child that lay at their feet and whimpered softly. Thin, grubby hands grappled at the bloodied ground as the child, a girl judging by its torn and dirty skirt, tried to crawl away from its captors, but one of the females put her foot on the girl’s back and held her down. There was a loud crunch as the girl’s spine broke. She whimpered once more and then was silent.

 

The Felidae did not notice Schuldig or did not pay any attention to him as he slowly walked up to them. The female who had killed the child, a tall, forbidding creature with long black hair and fiery eyes, yanked the corpse up from the ground and tore into the soft throat, biting out a large chunk. In the dirty light of the gas lamp, Schuldig could see her teeth; long, slightly hooked canines, bloodless lips stretched over them as she chewed and swallowed. He stopped a few lengths away from them and watched. The female took one more bite and handed the child’s corpse over to her companions as though they were sharing an apple, lifting a corner of her shirt to wipe her mouth and chin clean of blood. It was then that Schuldig noticed that she was wearing trousers like a man. Where her lifted shirt revealed her stomach, muscle knotted the skin.

 

He had dealt with Felidae before, once. These creatures did not appear to be that much different from the ones he had seen in his native Cologne. There was the same hunger in the female’s eyes as she turned to him and stepped away from her companions, the same aura of danger emitting from her as she watched him with narrowed eyes and slightly bared teeth. Christine had, as always, exaggerated. The three Felidae wore black, but their clothes were not in rags. The two females had long hair that hung wildly about their shoulders, but it was clean, as was their skin. The male was broad-shouldered, his hair trimmed above his ears.

 

Schuldig squared his shoulders and let the female look her fill. She kept her teeth bared and slowly advanced on him, taking small, cautious steps until she stood no more than arms’ length away. Now that she was closer to him, Schuldig saw that she wore small silver hoops in both ears. Boldly, she reached out and touched his hair, apparently admiring the long sunset-coloured strands that spilled over his shoulders and hung to the middle of his back. Then she dropped her hand and took a step back.

 

“Vampire. Why do you interrupt our meal?”

 

Her voice was dark and had a slight growl to it. She had an accent he could not place - Eastern Europe something - but her English was easy to understand. Schuldig nodded a late greeting and said, “My name is Schuldig. Bring me to your leader.”

 

The other two Felidae had meanwhile finished their ‘meal’ as well; the corpse of the child had disappeared into a rough sack that hung over the male’s shoulder, tied with a strong cord. Only a few small pools of blood remained where the kill had taken place. They hovered on either side of the black-haired female, watching him with an intensity any other being would have found unnerving. As a Vampire, Schuldig knew he was capable of the same intensive stare, so being subjected to one did not faze him. He calmly waited for the female to make up her mind.

 

“Come along,” she finally said. “My name is Anna.”

 

The other two ran ahead, disappearing out of his sight so quickly they were like shadows fleeing from the light. Anna walked more slowly, now and then glancing at him as she led the way back to Berkeley Street. They crossed Piccadilly and walked along Green Park until they reached a house on the corner of at the very end of the park, almost within shouting distance of Grosvenor Place. The scent was so strong here, a mixture of spice and blood, that Schuldig’s nostrils flared as they stepped onto the porch of the house. It was large, Georgian style, and it looked expensive. He wondered how a clan of Felidae could afford such a house - if they indeed had bought it, and not simply murdered its inhabitants as he had learned they sometimes did - when Anna snickered and turned to him.

 

“Vampires aren’t the only ones who have money.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you usually listen to the thoughts of everyone around you?”

 

“You think so loudly I could not help it.” She knocked on the door. The male who had been with her opened it for them, giving Schuldig a curious stare as he stepped inside. “We are new in this city. We are not used to all its rules yet.”

 

The teasing undertone of her voice annoyed him, as did the broad smile she gave as he wrinkled his nose at the smell inside the house. It stank of cat. Schuldig followed the male’s outstretched arm and walked up a broad flight of stairs. The house had two floors; both had been cleared of any signs of its original owners. There were no paintings on the walls, no furniture, not even carpet. How long would the Felidae be able to keep this place before the neighbours became suspicious and alerted the police? On the first floor, Schuldig stopped dead at the sight of at least twelve cats sitting on either side of the hallway, silent and still as statues, only their eyes moving as he walked past them toward the door at the end of the hallway. The door was half-open, allowing glimpses of dark furniture and the flickering light of candles. He did not wait for an invitation and pushed the door open.

 

The room was large and once might have been airy, but now it seemed every single piece of furniture had been removed from the other parts of the house with the sole purpose of stuffing them all in here. There was no order whatsoever - several chairs and tables lay upturned or stacked on top of other furniture, closets faced the wall instead of facing away from it. Mirrors lined one entire wall from which the tapestry had been cut or scratched off. As he closed the door, movement from above made him look up to see that large sheets of varying colour had been affixed to the ceiling; it made the already stuffed room look like a cave or an oriental harem. Large candles sat on every available flat surface, some of them lit to cast everything into a soothing, warm light.

 

To Schuldig’s right, a large four-poster bed had been pushed sideways against the wall, the floor in front of it heaped with blankets and pillows. His impression of an oriental harem only deepened as he became aware of the cats lounging there, stretched out lazily on their bellies or their sides, as colourful as the pillows, watching him through large, luminous eyes. The bed had been cleared of sheets and pillows. On the white mattress, a young man sat, holding a kitten on his lap.

 

“I assume you are the leader of this clan,” Schuldig walked to the edge of the pillows and sheets, the cats motionless as though his presence did not disturb them at all. “What is your name?”

 

The young man was tall and slender and had dark, tousled hair of a colour Schuldig could not determine in the flickering candlelight. He was pale, but it was a uniform pallor and not the whiteness of disease or famine. He wore no shirt, only dark pants, and no shoes, one leg curled under him and the other stretched out over the edge of the bed. His hands never stopped moving and continued to pet the kitten on his lap as he looked at the Vampire, his eyes reflecting the light so intensely that Schuldig realized they were indeed amber.

 

“Farfarello,” he finally said. “And I’m indeed the leader.”

 

He said nothing else, apparently waiting for Schuldig to state his business or leave. His expression gave nothing away. There was something on his cheeks...Schuldig carefully manoeuvred over the lounging cats and stepped closer to the bed, curiosity momentarily winning over caution. He had dealt with the Felidae before but this was the first time that he was that close to one of their leaders. As far as he understood their clan system, the leaders did not necessarily have to be very old to be chosen; yet he had heard often enough that they were supposed to have special powers. Farfarello had the ageless face of a member of the Dark Breed; he could have been fifteen or twenty-five, with his true age ranging from a hundred to a thousand years.

 

“I’m Schuldig. What are you doing here?”

 

Farfarello continued to give him a blank stare. “What do you mean?”

 

“What are you doing in London?” Schuldig clarified, close enough to the bed now that he could clearly see the faintly raised lines on the Felidae’s face. “I would have thought that as the leader, you would make your presence known to the _Elders_ of the city.”

 

He had thought the light to play tricks on his eyes before, but now he saw that Farfarello had four scars on the right side of his face. They were ever so slightly darker than the rest of his skin and so fine that a mortal might not even see them. They looked like markings or signs; one short scar started at the highest peak of his eyebrow and trailed out toward his temple, the other three were single, straight lines beginning on the cusp of his cheekbone sharply beneath his eye and reaching into the hair above his ear. He also wore an earring in his right ear, set high in the delicate shell.

 

At the mention of Elders, something shifted and flickered in Farfarello’s eyes. “I am an Elder in my own right. What we do here is our business.”

 

The cats lounging on the sheets and pillows sat up as though they had caught on to the slight undertone of hostility in their leader’s voice. Schuldig glanced back at them and straightened up as Farfarello rose as well, cradling the kitten to his chest with one hand. Standing, he was a little smaller than the Vampire but his arms and upper body were lined with muscle. The scars on his face were not the only ones. Randomly scattered over his chest, shoulders and arms were lines similar to the ones on his face - signs of struggles for power amid his clan, or more signs of his ‘royalty’?

 

“To put your worrying soul at ease, we come in peace.” Farfarello bore Schuldig’s study of his own person with the famous stoicism of the animal his kin was named after. “We don’t intend to take anyone’s territory and seek no trouble unless others seek trouble with us.”

 

“Yeah, the Felidae are _known_ for living oh so peacefully next to the other Shadow Breeds.” Schuldig snorted and shook his head. At his words, two or more cats in the room hissed, but he paid no attention. “The last time I had to deal with your kind was because a clan literally ripped the entire populace of a small town apart.”

 

Farfarello bared his teeth at Schuldig and growled in the back of the throat, letting the Vampire know that he had hit a nerve. It was the first time since they laid eyes on each other that he showed any kind of emotional reaction to the Vampire’s words. “No cat attacks without a reason. On the contrary, it is the Vampire and the Wer that seeks us out, taking us for playthings and easy prey because we spend half of our lives as cats. Do not confuse history with hearsay here, Vampire.” He set the kitten down on a pillow and stalked toward the door, grabbing a bundle of cloth off a table on his way. “I’ve had no reason to make our presence known here all too soon thanks to previous experience.”

 

The audience with the king was obviously at its end. Schuldig watched with narrowed eyes as Farfarello shook the bundle of cloth and pulled it over his head; it was a shapeless tunica with long sleeves and a hood that hid most of Farfarello’s face when he pulled it over his head.

 

“And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to hunt.”

 

It was a clear dismissal. Schuldig gave him a condescending look and left through the door Farfarello held open for him, seeing that the cats in the hallway had not moved in the meantime. He had not noticed it before, but now he saw that these were no ordinary house cats. Their fur was ragged and knotted in several places, some of them had torn ears and scarred maws, and all of them were quite bulky. They looked more like miniature lions than cats. _Warriors_. The word passed through Schuldig’s mind as he watched them watch him. It made him wonder what their king looked like in his Felidae form.

 

Farfarello walked next to him as they left the house, as though he wanted to make sure that Schuldig really left it and not lingered behind. As they stepped outside, the Vampire drew in a deep breath. The clear air was a blessing to his senses, the harsh, distinct aroma of _cat_ and blood clinging to his tongue and teeth as if he had bitten one of them. He had to get out of these clothes as quickly as possible.

 

He turned to Farfarello, who stood at the curb and watched him from under the large hood of his tunica. “I assume this won’t be the last time we see each other. Let’s hope it will be in peace.”

 

The Felidae seemed unfazed by the clear warning in Schuldig’s words and shrugged. Without another word he walked away from the house and soon disappeared out of the Vampire’s sight, walking so softly that not even Schuldig’s sharp ears could detect the sound of his footfall. Glancing after Farfarello until he was out of sight, Schuldig turned back to the house once more. Behind the dark windows he saw the shapes of many cats sitting on the windowsills. Although he knew that no Felidae would ever willingly attack a Vampire Schuldig could not get rid of the impression that they were watching him hungrily. It made for a peculiar sensation.

 

Schuldig was not used to be looked at as though he was dinner. It was usually the other way around.

 

\---

 

He returned to Shaftesbury Avenue an hour later. The audience with the leader of the Felidae had not so much given him a lot to think about but left him somewhat unsettled for reasons he could not name; it was as though Farfarello had purposely kept something from him. The sensation had settled in the pit of his stomach when he left Mayfair and had not gone away since. Schuldig tried to imagine what it was, what had not been said. He came to no satisfying conclusion. There was no reason to assume that the sudden arrival of the Felidae clan meant anything in particular for him and the other Vampires in London. If Farfarello wanted to keep the reasons of their presence a secret, Schuldig had no justifiable reason to drive him away unless that secret endangered his life.

 

In fact, perhaps he had acted a little too rashly and drawn too much from his previous experience in Cologne. Back then, a clan of Felidae had indeed torn so viciously into the population of a suburb that within a few days more than a hundred corpses were found on the streets. Schuldig and two other local Vampires had gone out to hunt the catkin down, killing them one after the other. It had not been so much as revenge but an act of precaution; superstition and hearsay were mightier than the sword and witch hunts had been a weekly occurrence back then. With the death of the catkin the killings had stopped. Neither Schuldig nor the other two Vampires understood why they had started killing in the first place, and none of the Felidae they caught gave them an answer to their question. It was as though the entire clan had suddenly gone insane. In the end it did not matter anymore. The killing had stopped. He could continue his life without having to worry about exposure.

 

Crawford sat in his usual place by the window as he entered the apartment, reading by the light of the fire. Without looking up from the book on his lap he said,

 

“Christine was not amused. She told me to tell you that she expects a lot of flowers to make up for your sudden disappearance from the theatre.”

 

Schuldig nodded and slipped out of his coat, seeing out of the corner of his eye how Crawford wrinkled his nose. He went to his bedroom and undressed, stuffing the clothes into a hamper to have them washed later, and took a bath before he returned to the living room. Crawford had not moved in the meantime but the book he had been reading now lay on the small table next to his chair.

 

“So you found them. Where are they staying?”

 

“In a corner house in Mayfair, at the end of Green Park. I’m assuming they killed the original inhabitants.” He sat down on the couch and put his feet up. “An entire house full of cats but I doubt that were all of them. If it was, it’s an awfully small clan.”

 

Crawford tapped his finger against his lips, looking at the crackling flames of the fire. He seemed to give Schuldig’s words some thought and said nothing for long minutes, during which Schuldig again went through his meeting with Farfarello. The more he thought about it the more he _knew_ Farfarello had kept something from him.

 

“Well, I say we don’t pay too much attention to them,” Crawford finally said. “I don’t think they’ll interfere with anything that concerns us; let them have Mayfair as long as they don’t leave corpses everywhere.”

 

He thought back to the child and the flickering gaslights, remembered Anna as she put her foot on the girl’s back and broke her spine. It sent a shudder down his back, the cold, ruthless way with which she had gone about it. Schuldig heeded few rules when it came to mortals, but children had always been off-limits to him. It was not their innocence or their youth; it was the easiness with which they could be caught. He liked to play with his food once in a while and a child was hardly a worthy opponent.

 

“Have you ever heard the name Farfarello?” Schuldig asked.

 

Crawford frowned. “Only in a book. Dante Alighieri, ‘The Divine Comedy’. I have a copy of it somewhere in my collection. It is the name of a demon, if I recall correctly.”

 

“That is the name of their leader. Quite an interesting creature and as quiet as the proverbial grave. But he has a temper.” He recalled the ‘harem’ of cats in the room, saw Farfarello’s hands move over the soft fur of the kitten on his lap, and wondered if what saw had been a father stroking his child. The thought required some severe bending of his mind before he was able to process it. “He said they come in peace and don’t want trouble.”

 

“Then let’s not give them any.”

 

“Since when are you so lenient toward invaders?”

 

The other Vampire gave a small shrug and picked his book up from the table, flipping to the page he had marked with a slip of paper. “Perhaps because I’ve never had to directly deal with Felidae before. Now if it were a clan of Wer it’d be a different story, but they aren’t and it isn’t. They haven’t done anything to me. They’re no danger to me personally unless they endanger my very existence. We’re not in the Dark Ages anymore, Schu. Live and let live.”

 

“And yet you called their sudden appearance here ‘interesting and uncommon’.” He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up, combing the tangles out of his hair with his fingers. “Ah well, perhaps you’re right. Let’s see what happens.”

 

\---

 

Nothing happened. Three months passed before Schuldig so much as saw a Felidae again, and by the time it came to pass he had almost forgotten about his meeting with their leader. He spent two weeks trying to placate Christine, who was furious about his disappearance from the theatre during her performance but quickly gave in to his apology as he presented her with a bouquet of flowers and an expensive pearl collier. She listened to his narration of how he had met Farfarello but shrugged her shoulders as he mentioned how he felt about it all.

 

“Cats,” she said, and there was a derisive tone to her voice, “Never give you a straight answer. That much I’ve learned. You shouldn’t pay too much attention to them.”

 

“And what should I pay attention to?” he asked, knowing full well what she would answer.

 

“Me.” Christine didn’t disappoint him. She slung her arms around his neck and smiled at him, all teeth. “What else?”

 

The end of the summer brought with it a heat wave its likes Schuldig had not experienced in a long time. Even during the night the air was humid and heavy, and lightning frequently cracked the sky, bathing the skin of his victims in the hues of violet and blue. Heavy rainfalls turned the cobblestone streets of London’s East End into mudslides. The bloated corpses of rats floated in the large puddles of rainwater. An outbreak of cholera in the poorest corner of London’s East end occupied the London Times for two weeks before an aggressive move suggested by Queen Victoria herself put an abrupt end to the quickly spreading disease; the corpses were burned in large heaps and the sick treated in public hospitals that for once made no difference between rich and poor. Schuldig amused himself by following reports about a particular member of the royal family who caught the disease from a prostitute and spread it to his wife before the news feed trickled down, no doubt on orders from the queen herself.

 

The heat subsided as quickly as it had come, taking with it the storms and the lightning. He was glad. He was a Vampire, but even then he sometimes thought he could feel his very bones creak when he moved.

 

He was on his own during the first two weeks of September, rarely spending more than a few minutes with either of his friends. Crawford immersed himself in a crate of new books he had received from a trader in America, Christine was practising for her debut as Salome, and Schuldig was left to his own devices. He took long walks along the Thames and ventured into Mayfair twice, keeping away from the house near Green Park, though. His suspicion toward the Felidae - and that was it, he thought, pure suspicion brought on by his earlier experience with them - had faded entirely and made way for mild curiosity that he did not need to satisfy anytime soon.

 

On a quite chilly evening at the end of September he was intercepted on his way home. The young woman hanging onto his arm gave a shriek as Farfarello suddenly melted out of the shadows under a stone archway at the thankfully deserted Leicester Square and wordlessly stepped into their path. Even Schuldig was dumbfounded for a second, having neither heard nor smelled the Felidae prior to his sudden appearance. He quickly schooled his expression into a calm mask that Farfarello managed to shatter as he stepped forward and grabbed the young woman’s head in both hands. She died before she had the chance to utter another shriek, the sound of her snapping spine loud in the night.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Schuldig asked as he caught the corpse before it hit the ground, fixing the Felidae with an acid stare. He kept his voice deceptively calm but inside he was fuming. The audacity! “You’ve just cost me my dinner.”

 

Farfarello’s face was distorted by anger and his voice barely held in check as he said, “You’re coming with me.”

 

He was wearing heavy boots, pants and the same shapeless tunica Schuldig had seen him in before, though now the hood was pulled down. His breathing was rapid as though he had run a long way. Schuldig looked for a convenient place where he could sit the corpse of the young woman down on the ground and _felt_ Farfarello’s impatience as he took care to smoothen down her skirt and gown before he rose and turned around.

 

Schuldig had not meant to slap him quite as hard as he did but anger took the control out of his hands and sent Farfarello flying across half the square. He must have surprised the Felidae entirely with this attack; Farfarello landed with a loud, painful-sounding thud and lay motionless even as Schuldig walked up to him, staring up at the dark sky with wide eyes. Schuldig wondered if he had broken something but found that question answered as the Felidae rolled onto his side and got to his feet, shaking his head like a dog might.

 

“That hurt,” he said matter-of-factly, straightening up with an audible cracking sound coming from his spine. He seemed otherwise uninfected by a blow that would have killed a mortal.

 

“You have one minute to tell me what’s so important that you had to kill my dinner for me,” Schuldig let an edge creep into his voice, intentionally stepping closer to the Felidae until he towered over him. “That was rude, to say the least.”

 

“Drop the princess act and move,” Farfarello said. In his impatience he reached out for Schuldig’s sleeve and growled when the Vampire shook him off easily. “Don’t you want to see the corpses?”

 

“Corpses?” Schuldig snorted. There were corpses in London every day and he had no desire to see what Farfarello seemed to think was so important. “Why would I want to see two corpses?”

 

The way Farfarello rolled his eyes toward the sky amused him but he caught himself before he burst out laughing, and sobered up entirely as the Felidae reached into a pocket hidden somewhere on his tunic and produced a gleaming chain of pearls.

 

“She was your friend, wasn’t she? Don’t you want to know what happened to her?”

 

He held the pearl collier Schuldig had given to Christine in his hand, stained with dried blood.

 

\---

 

Farfarello’s hair had almost the same colour as the dried blood on Christine’s face, Schuldig observed numbly as he stood next to the corpse and stared down into sightless, cloudy grey eyes. He had noticed its unusual colour as they passed under the lamps of the Embankment and now it was everything he could think about as he looked at her face. He held the pearl collier in his hand, his fingers clenched so tightly around the smooth orbs that he felt several of them crack and shatter the longer he stood there, staring down at what was left of Christine.

 

He forced himself to look away from her face, at the rest of her body. There was not much left. Whoever, _whatever_ had killed her had ripped off her legs and turned her lower body into a mangled mess of pale intestines and viciously torn flesh and skin. Her taffeta skirt, her favourite green one he noticed, had been ripped off shortly below her breasts, exposing the destruction of her body to the rest of the world.

 

The Thames moved sluggishly, sending a small wave over the corpse lying on one of the many natural gravel banks along the river. Christine’s loose tresses floated in the water like some bizarre kind of sea weed. Her intestines were pale snakes, the blood drained from them during the hours she must have lain here. Schuldig felt his stomach attempt to turn and took a deep, harsh breath, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, one of her hands weakly moved in the water, a morbid parody of a wave.

 

He heard gravel crunch beneath heavy boots but did not turn, transfixed by that waving hand. Farfarello appeared at his side, arms crossed over his chest as though he was cold, and looked out across the river. He did not say a word but kept moving restlessly, stepping here and there, kicking at something in the gravel to send it skittering across the Thames, finally returning to Schuldig’s side.

 

“Could you hold still for one damned second and let me...”

 

“Mourn her? She’s dead. Keep her alive in your memory, that’ll serve her better.”

 

Schuldig whirled around and would have struck Farfarello again, but this time his fist was intercepted by a surprisingly strong grip wrapping around his curled fingers and squeezing until he felt the small bones shift against one another. Over the top of his fist, Farfarello’s eyes were once again calm, cold, betraying none of his emotions. The Felidae held Schuldig’s fist for a moment longer before he let go and stepped back.

 

“Dead is dead.”

 

“Shut up, heartless bastard.” He turned back to the corpse and crouched down at her side. How long had she lain here? Who had killed her, and why? Schuldig felt bile rise in his throat as the stench of decomposition wafted toward him but he looked closely at the part of her body that spilled intestines like an offering to a hungry, dark god. “...my God. Who did this?”

 

The skin along the edges of the destruction was frayed, but here and there he saw stab wounds in Christine’s upper stomach. He could not imagine anything that had enough strength to tear a body apart; not even a Wer had that much strength and even if a Wer had done this, why was the body still here? They weren’t wasteful. They usually completely devoured their kill. Schuldig squeezed his eyes shut as the colour drained from the edges of the field of his vision.

 

Just two days ago he had visited her, watching one of her practise performances for her newest role. She had been so vibrant, so full of joy, that Schuldig believed the role of Salome would be her finest performance yet. And now she lay here, dead, destroyed, violated. Gone.

 

He must have faltered. The next thing he became aware of was Farfarello’s breath on his neck as the Felidae pulled him to his feet and said,

 

“...land face-first in the fucking water, you idiot!”

 

Schuldig shrugged out of the hold and stumbled forward, back to Christine’s side. He ignored Farfarello’s annoyed sigh, he ignored the Felidae completely. Kneeling at the side of the corpse once more, he looked around. His mind detached from his body, clinically arranging facts. It was the only way he could deal with Christine’s death for now; thinking about the ‘how’ and ‘when’ distracted him from the carnage before him. Behind Schuldig, a little further down the river, the looming shadow of London Bridge led over to Thames to Southwark and its warehouses and factories. He could see the little boats and rotting docks at the riverside walkway and trailed his eyes over the grimy buildings at the edge of the river.

 

Although it was still the middle of the night, someone working over there, or strolling along the river, might have heard or seen something. Southwark was famous for its illicit offerings of pleasure because it had been out of city jurisdiction long enough to ensure that even today, the brothel, bear pub and restaurant owners considered their side of the river a town unto its own. Schuldig enjoyed the Elizabethan theatre in particular and knew that the streets of Southwark were never really deserted. There were prostitutes who lived and worked in houses facing the Thames; surely one of them must have seen something, heard something?

 

“What makes you so sure she was killed here?” Farfarello’s voice intruded on his contemplations. “Look at the ground around you. There’s no blood anywhere and it hasn’t rained in the last few hours.”

 

It seemed that the Felidae had an inborn talent to read the minds of their fellow Dark Breeds. It was annoying. Schuldig turned on his heel, rested his elbow on his knee, and looked up at Farfarello through narrowed eyes.

 

“I would appreciate it if you stayed _out_ of my head.”

 

The Felidae shrugged and kicked at the gravel once more. “Can’t help it. You think too loud for me to miss it.”

 

He ignored the comment and turned back, but Farfarello would not leave him alone. The Felidae’s shadow fell over Schuldig and the corpse, causing the Vampire to look up at him once more. He was both appalled and intrigued by the absence of emotion on Farfarello’s face as the Felidae looked at the corpse. Surely he must feel something at this tabloid of destruction?

 

“That doesn’t faze you at all, does it? This sight?”

 

“I’ve seen it too often,” Farfarello said. “It stops getting to you after a while.”

 

Suspiciously, Schuldig rose, forcing him to take a step away. “What do you mean, you’ve seen it too often?”

 

“I said there was a second corpse, no?” The Felidae turned and started to walk away from Schuldig, throwing a look back over his shoulder at the Vampire who did not move from the side of the corpse. “It’s not far.”

 

Schuldig did not want to leave Christine’s remains here, at the mercy of the Thames and the rats. Already he could hear them, their furry bodies moving close together further up the gravel outcrop, where fisher boats lay upturned, the paint of their undersides peeling. Rats made no difference between mortal and Dark Breed; flesh was flesh to them and food for their young. The thought of rats gnawing the flesh off Christine’s remaining bones made him reel once more.

 

But he stepped away from her and followed Farfarello up the river bank as curiosity won over emotion. If there was a second corpse he had to see it. They walked a bit further down the Embankment, closer to London Bridge, until they reached another gravel bank. Farfarello did not set foot on this one, but remained at its edge and pointed.

 

What Schuldig thought was two cats was one torn in the middle, the halves a few feet apart. Its fur was a light dirty grey that made its body blend in with the gravel; here and there it looked as though someone had shorn or ripped the fur off. There was something odd about it, though. Schuldig once more could not withstand the same curiosity that had made him follow Farfarello and walked over to the corpse, sucking his breath in as he saw in detail what had seemed so off about the cat’s body. What looked like shorn fur from a distance was skin shining through the coarse pelt. Human skin. Around the shoulders and the lower back of the cat, the light grey hairs covering the rest of its body had receded completely and given way to perfectly normal skin.

 

Curiosity pulled at him once more, and this time it was morbid.

 

He had to know. Ignoring Farfarello’s cry of outrage, he lifted the severed upper half of the corpse and pulled one eyelid up. What looked back at him was a sightless human eye, the pupil nothing but a pinprick surrounded by a brown iris. Although he had suspected he would see it, it still shocked him so much that he dropped the remains and took a hasty step back. The cat’s fur had left a thin film of grease and dirt on his fingers. Schuldig took out a handkerchief and frantically rubbed his hands, fearing for an absurdly long moment that this film would somehow seep through the pores of his skin. He threw the handkerchief onto the gravel and walked back to Farfarello, thoroughly disgusted.

 

“Wretched bastard!” The Felidae was trembling with rage as though Schuldig had defiled the corpse somehow. “You just had to touch him, didn’t you?”

 

Surprised by the sudden outburst, Schuldig pushed Farfarello away as he advanced on him. “I thought dead is dead.”

 

“Accepting death and poking around in a corpse are hardly the same!” Shoulders hunched, Farfarello thrust his hands into the pockets of his tunica and glared at him. “I didn’t pull open _her_ mouth to check if she’s a Vampire.”

 

Suspicion reared its ugly head once more. Schuldig could not help it. He looked Farfarello up and down, considering the Felidae’s height, the breadth of his shoulders. He had not thought of it in a long time, but he suddenly remembered the female Felidae, Anna, and how she had broken her victim’s spine with ease. True, it had been a child, but bones were bones. Keeping his eyes on Farfarello, he circled him once, and then stopped directly in front of him, close enough to feel his breath stir the hair on his brow.

 

“Then how do you know she’s a Vampire?”

 

Farfarello did not move while Schuldig walked around him, but the Vampire could tell it had made him uneasy. He must have picked some of his thoughts up again once more, too, because his mouth fell open and his eyes widened with incredulity, and he said, “You don’t think _I_...that’s ridiculous!”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“I can smell her. I can smell _you_.”

 

It made sense. Standing so close to Farfarello and despite the foul odour of the Thames hanging in the air along the entire Embankment, Schuldig could detect the same exotic smell coming from the Felidae’s very skin. Spices, dust and blood. He moved his head forward like a snake and took a deep whiff, noting how Farfarello froze at the sudden closeness. There was no legit reason why to a Felidae, a Vampire should not have a distinct smell as well.

 

“All right,” Schuldig said, stepping back. “I believe you.”

 

It did not subtract from the tenseness between them as they walked back to Christine. Schuldig wondered if Farfarello, as the leader of the Felidae, was simply going to leave the corpse of one of his kin on the bank of the Thames. Then he stood over Christine’s corpse once more and forgot about it. Oddly enough he wondered where the rest of her body was. He looked around the gravel bank and realized that what Farfarello had said was true; there was no blood anywhere, and even if the Thames had drained Christine’s completely there should have been evidence of a fight or at least of the slaughter. But the small pebbles around him and further up near the bank were clean. Apart from his and Farfarello’s traces there were no other signs of anyone having set foot on this bank lately.

 

What if she had not been killed here but further up the river, beyond London Bridge? He turned and looked at the construction stretched across the Thames and imagined the killer – or killers – standing there in the middle of the bridge, heaving Christine’s body over the railing and watching her sink in the waters. That her body would have been washed ashore at this very bank here seemed unlikely but was not impossible. The currents of Father Thames were strong and fast, they could push anything out onto the banks. It was one of the reasons why Schuldig did not like to discard of his victims this way.

 

A squeak roused him from his contemplations. Farfarello stood next to one of the upturned fisher boats, holding the wriggling form of an enormous grey rat in his hand. Its long pale tail swished furiously as the Felidae turned it this way and that, looking at it as though he was studying an object at the market. Schuldig’s stomach rebelled as he thought about Farfarello eating that thing until he remembered that the Felidae did not eat rats and mice like their animal counterparts. As he watched, Farfarello gripped the rat’s head in his free hand and twisted, the resulting crack startling Schuldig although he had anticipated it.

 

He could not suppress the sound of revulsion as Farfarello laid the corpse onto the upturned fisher boat and cut its tail off with a small knife he pulled from his boot.

 

“Something you’re going to snack on later?”

 

“Something for the kittens to try their teeth on,” Farfarello said matter-of-factly, wrapping the tail in a piece of cloth he produced from a pocket of his tunica. “I have to go back. It’s getting late.”

 

Schuldig watched him climb back up onto the Embankment, carrying the wrapped rat tail like a present. The feeling of something missing, something being left unsaid had not reappeared until now that Farfarello was about to leave him alone with Christine’s corpse. Whatever it was, Schuldig could not put his finger on it; the fact that Christine was dead did not seem to have anything to do with the Felidae clan’s presence in London and yet there _was_ a connection somewhere. Farfarello had said he had seen this before. Did he mean he had seen dead Vampires before? Did it mean finding Christine’s corpse had not surprised him?

 

“Wait!” Schuldig called out as the Felidae reached the Embankment. Farfarello glanced back over his shoulder. “Why did you get me? Why didn’t you just leave the corpse here?”

 

The answer was short and flippant and did nothing to ease Schuldig’s progressively darker mood. “Because I thought I’d play nice after you already accused me of not grovelling at your throne, _Elder_.”

 

“Why are you leaving now? Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that a Felidae and a Vampire get killed on the same day, at the same place?”

 

Farfarello turned around and crouched at the edge of the Embankment, giving Schuldig a stare he could not fathom. There was something off in those eyes, something distant and cold that made him think of insects encased in amber, preserved for all eternity. He suddenly wondered how old Farfarello really was.

 

Farfarello looked at him for a long time before he said, “Not on the same day. The sister has lain here for a week.”

 

A _week_? Schuldig clenched his fingers and felt the oily film on them all over again. “So what were you doing here if you knew the ‘sister’ was dead?”

 

“Checking to see if anyone was around. Don’t murderers have the habit of returning to the site of the murder?”

 

“You know what that says about you, don’t you?”

 

Annoyed, Farfarello swiped at the air as though he was batting away the very thought Schuldig had right now. He stood and stuffed the rat tail into his pocket, balefully looking down at the Vampire corpse. “You should take care of that corpse. Come morning, there will be people all over the place.”

 

Schuldig had not thought of that before. The thought of touching Christine now, of carrying her away, made him feel sick. All those trailing intestines, that wet hair, those soaked clothes... But Farfarello was right – a dead cat might go unnoticed. A dead Vampire would not, especially not if someone called the police and they took a look at Christine’s teeth. Pushing her back into the water was out of the question. The chance that the corpse might be washed ashore again further down the river was too great.

 

He looked at the corpse, not knowing what to do, until Farfarello’s footfall on the gravel interrupted him. There was an expression of deep annoyance on his face, paired with something Schuldig thought was impatience.

 

“If you won’t or can’t do it, I will.”

 

“You’re not going to touch her, _hairball_.”

 

“Who said I’m going to touch anything, _leech_? I’m not the one who pokes around in corpses, unlike someone else on this gravel bank.”

 

Schuldig would have answered to that insult but he was cut short by a strange sound. Before his very eyes, Christine’s soaked taffeta skirt suddenly caught fire and was slowly devoured by flames. Too dumbfounded to move at first, Schuldig watched the flames begin to eat at her hair before he managed to shake the surprise and shouted, “What are you doing?”

 

Farfarello’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as he bit out, “Taking care of the corpse.” His right hand was held out palm-first, both directing the flames at the corpse and keeping them in check. Schuldig wanted to stop him and opened his mouth to tell him so, but a sudden roar of flames leaping at him forced him to retreat and curse silently. Farfarello gave him an acid stare and said something under his breath which caused the fire to burn higher, faster; within moments all that had remained of Christine’s clothes was gone. Naked and hairless, the pitiful state of the corpse ingrained itself even deeper into Schuldig’s mind. He clenched his teeth and felt tears threaten to spill down his cheeks.

 

A rancid stench quickly permeated the air around them. Schuldig could not bear it and stepped further away, finally turned around entirely and stared up at London Bridge through blurred eyes. His mind was doing cartwheels. He remembered speculating if the leader of the Felidae had any of those special powers folklore said the clan leaders usually had, but now that he was treated to a firsthand experience he could not bring himself to care about it. It did not matter.

 

Flesh sizzled as though water was poured onto a hot oven. Schuldig felt the heat at his back but did not turn around until the sizzling receded and made way for a more pronounced crackling. As that finally died down, he looked; the sight of the black, charred skeleton lying on the gravel bank was not as horrible as the sight of the corpse had been. In fact, the longer he looked at it the less he associated it with Christine. Christine was gone. What remained were bones that did not even deserve her name anymore.

 

Farfarello stood a little further away from the burned remains now, coughing. His cheeks were smudged with black grime and the whites of his eyes reddened. “You can take care of bones, no?” he asked, sounding strangely tired. The use of fire must have exhausted him. “I can’t burn those.”

 

Schuldig nodded, once more feeling detached from everything. The only remaining emotion was emptiness as he slipped out of his coat to collect the bones. They made for such a small bundle. He made a makeshift sack of his coat and lifted it up.

 

He was surprised to find Farfarello still standing there, watching him. He had been so caught in his task that he paid no attention to the Felidae until now that he saw him.

 

On a whim, Schuldig said, “Come with me. You can take a bath at my place. It’s the least I can do by way of thanks.”

 

Farfarello gave him a speculating look but followed him.

 

\---

 

Schuldig insisted on a detour to St. Paul’s Cathedral on their way to Shaftesbury Avenue and expected Farfarello to object, but the Felidae was strangely silent. He walked behind Schuldig, so quietly that the Vampire looked back over his shoulder several times to see if he was indeed still there. Every time he looked, Farfarello seemed sunken into a world of his own, eyes focused on something only he could see. Perhaps the use of his fire had tired him more than Schuldig suspected.

 

They reached the ancient cathedral just as the horizon began to show its first patches of violet, heralding the coming morning. Schuldig thought it strangely adequate that Christine’s remains should be kept at St. Paul’s; it was also one of the few places in London he knew of where grave robbers were not all that common. He went around to the back of the monumental building, into a little graveyard surrounded by enough foliage to keep it private from prying eyes, and laid his makeshift sack on the ground as he selected a tomb. He paid no attention to Farfarello as he strained to push the heavy granite lid from the box below, the bones that already lay inside all but crumbled to dust.

 

When he turned to pick up his bundle, he found Farfarello perched on the edge of another tomb, knees drawn up to his chin. He was gazing at the tomb Schuldig had opened.

 

“See something you like?”

 

“A Vampire could have done it.”

 

Schuldig lifted the bundle and carefully let it down into the tomb, saying a silent farewell. “Could have done what?”

 

“Killed her like that. You pushed that heavy granite slab away as though it’s a straw mat.”

 

He did not like the direction Farfarello’s contemplations were going and roughly shoved the lid of the tomb back into its place, giving the Felidae a sour look. “A Vampire didn’t do it.”

 

“What makes you so sure?”

 

He did not know. He knew. Walking over to Farfarello, Schuldig watched his eyes widen imperceptibly the closer he came, as though he was awaiting an imminent attack. “I just know it.” He ignored Farfarello’s sudden jerk as he patted him down, searching for the pockets on the tunica, and sidestepped a kick that would have sent him flying backward. “Hold still.”

 

“And let a Vampire get his hands all over me?” Farfarello spat, twisting around onto his side to evade the questing hands. It only served Schuldig. His left hand suddenly slipped into the very pocket he had been looking for and touched the wrapped bundle that contained the rat tail. “Hey! What gives?”

 

Schuldig pulled the wrapped bundle out of Farfarello’s pocket and threw it into the bushes surrounding the small cemetery, withstanding the urge to wipe his fingers on his pants. “You’re not going to go into my house with that thing in your pocket.”

 

The look on the Felidae’s face as he looked at where the rat tail had gone was so incredulous – and at the same time so sad – that Schuldig wanted to laugh despite it all. Then he remembered what Farfarello had said, that the rat tail was for the kittens to try their teeth on, and sobered. Chagrined, he realized that he might just have cost someone a much-desired toy. What he thought of as revolting might indeed have its uses for someone like Farfarello.

 

Farfarello slipped down from the tomb and stalked off without a word, making for the bushes. He gave a shout of anger as Schuldig caught him by the arm, yanking to get out of the grip, but the Vampire held tight and did not let go. Schuldig almost began to think that Farfarello would risk a dislocated shoulder or even a broken arm as he continued to struggle, when the Felidae suddenly relented and sighed, giving up in the face of Schuldig’s greater strength. He did not give up lightly, though. Schuldig could see the anger dancing in his eyes and felt the muscles beneath his fingers tremble.

 

“You can get another rat tail,” he said, and then: “Do you still want that bath?”

 

“You’re the one who invited me to it,” Farfarello pointed out.

 

“I’m the one who thinks we should talk about this,” Schuldig answered.

 

“I think you should go home and leave me in peace. What is there to talk about?” Farfarello suddenly gave another yank on his arm and nearly managed to free himself. “I don’t appreciate being manhandled. Let me go, you ass!”

 

He had to hand it to him; Farfarello did not give up lightly. But Schuldig wanted the Felidae to accompany him, wanted to talk to him. He had the suspicious feeling that if he let Farfarello go now, he would not see him again for another three months unless he actively sought him out. He quickly spun Farfarello around by the hold on his arm and tried to grab the other arm when the left sleeve of his shirt caught fire. Schuldig shouted more out of surprise than fear and reacted in a way Farfarello might not have anticipated: his hands moving so quickly the motion was a blur even to his own eyes, Schuldig grabbed Farfarello’s head and slammed it down on the edge of the nearest tomb.

 

As soon as Farfarello crumbled against the tomb the flames dancing up Schuldig’s arm disappeared, leaving behind scorched cloth and reddened skin. The Vampire gingerly ran his fingers over the skin and hissed as pain shot through his entire left arm and radiated into his shoulder. That had been unexpected. The fact that Farfarello would use his fire on a _living_ Vampire – and indeed be able to do damage – was disconcerting. Schuldig wondered if fear or anger had driven the Felidae to this point but resigned himself to asking later.

 

If there was a later. Farfarello looked like a rag doll someone had carelessly tossed aside. A thin trickle of blood stained his chin and the skin above his right eyebrow and cheekbone was bruised and bleeding. Schuldig carefully ran his fingers over the Felidae’s head, fearing for a moment that he had cracked his skull, but as he pulled away Farfarello’s eyes rolled open and focused on him with some difficulty.

 

“Bastard.” His voice was faint, nothing more than a sigh. He did not protest as Schuldig gathered him up and sat him down on the tomb, cradling his head between his palms. “Fucking Vampire. You just can’t take a no, can you?”

 

As quickly as things had escalated they now calmed down; Farfarello was docile and leaned heavily on the Vampire as Schuldig set him on his feet. There was something about their very characters that made them opposed to each other, Schuldig realized. It was more than the different blood running through their veins, more than the cultural differences between them. He looked at the Felidae’s bowed head as they walked away from the cemetery. How little he knew of him. And yet he insisted on taking him home, insisted on talking to him. Hell, Crawford would go into conniptions about Schuldig dragging a _Felidae_ into their home.

 

He had extended the invitation on a whim, but now that they slowly neared Shaftesbury Avenue like a pair of drunken comrades on their way home from the pubs, he wondered if that whim had not been intention. He felt the very same again he had felt the first time: that there was something the Felidae was not saying, something Schuldig should know about. He was not very sure of himself right now. Perhaps he was just taking Farfarello along to have something to distract himself with. It had worked so far; he had definitely not been thinking about the gruesome scene at the Thames while he was occupied with Farfarello. Trying to come to the grounds of Christine’s murder with the help of someone who had seen the corpse – and burned it, his mind added – might help him overcome the despair he felt at the loss of a friend.

 

Farfarello lost consciousness on the stairs up to the floor Crawford and Schuldig lived on, leaving it to the Vampire to carry him up. The flow of blood had stopped – in fact, the bruises on Farfarello’s face looked as though they were already beginning to heal – but his skin was clammy now, a slight sheen of sweat on his brow and cheeks. He had most likely acquired a concussion as Schuldig slammed his head down on the tomb. Sighing, Schuldig walked up the last set of stairs, wondering idly if the entire Felidae clan would be on his heels if it turned out he had permanently damaged their leader.

 

Death by cat. It was not nearly as funny as it sounded as he thought back to the miniature lions guarding Farfarello’s ‘throne chamber’ at the house in Mayfair.

 

“What on earth...” Crawford opened the door before Schuldig had the chance to pull out his keys. He wore a robe and slippers, his hair was mussed, and the way his nose twitched let Schuldig know that he had smelled them. Rancid smoke clung to both their clothes and Farfarello added to the mix with his unique scent. Crawford stared at Farfarello, unconscious and pale in Schuldig’s arms. “Who is _that_?”

 

“The king of the Felidae clan,” Schuldig said matter-of-factly, pushing past his friend. In the hallway of their apartment, he turned and wondered how he should break the news of Christine’s death to Crawford. Christine had been mostly fixated on him, what with her quest to bed him, but she had been a friend of Crawford’s nevertheless, sharing with him his passion for dancing. He finally opted for bluntness, knowing no other way. “Christine is dead.”

 

Crawford had been staring at Farfarello with unbridled curiosity but at Schuldig’s words his head snapped up. “What?”

 

“Killed. Her corpse lay at the Thames, on a gravel bank near London Bridge.”

 

“You’re joking.” Crawford’s started to laugh faintly, but it died away as he saw the seriousness on Schuldig’s face. He shut the door with a soft click and leaned against it, silent. Knowing he would need time to come to terms with the fact – and did they ever come to terms with the death of a friend, or a lover? – Schuldig turned and carried Farfarello into the bathroom, laying him out on the throw rug in front of their brass bathtub. He felt his brow, noting with a frown that his skin was hot now instead of clammy. Farfarello’s pupils were pinpricks swimming in a sea of amber, but as far as Schuldig could see they were the same size. What was going on with the Felidae? He occupied himself by heating water for a bath and listened carefully for sounds from the hallway.

 

He knew Crawford would not snap, would not shout or break things. Crawford’s sadness was much like his joy, his anger, and his despair: quiet, focused and deadly. There would be hell to pay later, when Crawford went out and vented his emotional turmoil on the mortal population of London.

 

Schuldig himself felt no anger, only a slowly sweltering desire to find out who had done it. That in itself could be more dangerous than the greatest fury, he knew. He glanced at Farfarello and remembered what he had done to the Felidae of Cologne during his attempt to find out if they were the ones responsible for the kills. Back then he had been driven by a relentlessness he had not known he possessed.

 

The minutes crawled. Crawford appeared in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides, as Schuldig began to pour hot water into the tub. “Tell me how.”

 

“Bloody and cruel.” He kept his voice at a conversational level, knowing out of experience that keeping the details from his friend would only drive Crawford to ask until Schuldig surrendered every piece of information he had. “Her body was divided below the waist. Stab wounds further up, but whatever ripped her apart...must have used its teeth. The entire lower part of her body was missing. I have no idea if it’s still in the water or if it was...disposed of another way.”

 

Schuldig could not bring himself to say ‘eaten’. It was a possibility he had thought of before, but the only creatures who would attack a Vampire and then _eat_ them were the Wer. Like the Felidae, they needed meat to survive. But would a Wer attack a Vampire? Why? There were plenty of mortals in London to feed on. Furthermore, there currently were no Wer in London as far as he knew, and he could not imagine why one would venture from the woods and mountains they preferred to attack a single Vampire in the middle of a hectic, dirty city. He poured another bucket of hot water into the tub and shook his head at his own contemplations.

 

Crawford seemed to have pursued a similar line of thought and said, “It wasn’t a Wer. I don’t know of any in or around London.” He narrowed his eyes and looked down at Farfarello’s still form. “What about them?”

 

Schuldig followed his gaze, setting the bucket down. “There was the corpse of a Felidae a little further up the river. Killed in much the same way.” He thought back to the _human_ eyes staring at him from a cat’s face and shuddered.

 

“What did you do with the body?”

 

“Bu...buried her. In a tomb at St. Paul’s Cathedral.” There was no reason to disclose to Crawford the fact that Christine had not just been buried, but burned to a cinder by the very same Felidae now lying on the floor between them. Schuldig added cold water to the bathtub and then sat on its edge, rubbing his hands over his face. His palms smelled of smoke and grime. He needed a bath himself. “Did you hear anything unusual lately?”

 

“No. In fact, I spoke to Christine tonight.”

 

“What?”

 

Crawford nodded. “She came by here after you’d left and asked me to accompany her to a dance.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“A little before nine o’clock.” Crawford’s fist impacted with the frame of the door, leaving a shallow dent in the wood. “I was going through a book and told her I’d go with her tomorrow. If only I’d gone with her then!”

 

Schuldig stared at his friend, trying to line facts up before his eyes. He had found – or rather, Farfarello had found Christine’s body somewhere before midnight because he had chanced upon Schuldig and his lady escort just a few minutes after. By that time, Christine had been dead long enough for the river to wash the blood out of her and spit her up onto that gravel bank – if she had indeed been carried there by the river. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

 

The Felidae moved on the throw rug, his eyes rolling behind their lids as though he was having a dream. It attracted both Schuldig and Crawford’s attention; they watched him roll onto his side and fall back again with a small moan as though he was in pain.

 

“What happened to him? Is he ill?” Crawford asked, once again curious. He stepped forward and leaned over the prone Felidae, his hands twitching as though he wanted to touch him. “He looks like any young man to me.”

 

“Trust me, he’s more.” Schuldig rose from the bathtub and selected a small vial of oil from their collection of bathing substances. As he opened the stopper, a scent not unlike the Felidae’s own unique scent made his nostrils flare. “As for what happened to him, I slammed his head down on a tomb.”

 

Crawford did not ask and gave Schuldig a peculiar stare as he poured a few drops of the oil into the water. His eyes moved over the scorched sleeve of Schuldig’s shirt; he stepped back and leaned against the door’s frame once more as Farfarello’s eyes finally rolled open.

 

Had he been docile and calm before, the sight of two vampires so close to him alerted Farfarello. He was on his feet and retreated into a corner of the bathroom before Schuldig had the chance to say anything to him, staring at them with narrowed eyes. “Where am I?”

 

“In our bathroom,” Schuldig told him calmly. He nodded at the steaming tub. “There’s your bath.”

 

That Farfarello was nervous, perhaps even afraid, was easy to see for both of them. He remained in the corner of the room, his body slightly hunched as though he was awaiting an attack, and watched every of their motions carefully, his breath rapid as it had been when he met Schuldig at Leicester Square. The vampire ushered Crawford into the hallway and said, “Take your time. It’s getting light out.” Then he pulled the door shut and leaned against it. The only window in the bathroom was so small that Farfarello would never fit through it if he tried to escape.

 

“Why did you bring him here?” Crawford looked at the door and shook his head. “He’s a _Felidae_ for God’s sake! Do you have any idea what will happen if his clan finds out where it is, if they haven’t already? They’ll think we took him hostage!”

 

“Lower your voice.” He strained his ears, heard the sound of splashing water coming from behind the door, and, persuaded that Farfarello had accepted the offer, took Crawford by the arm and led him to the living room. “He was the one who led me to her corpse. If it hadn’t been for him we’d not know about Christine’s death until we read about it in the Times.”

 

“Still,” Crawford insisted, “Bringing him here is a bad idea. Christine said she’d seen some of them hanging around Whitechapel and the Docklands lately. She thought they were up to something.” He stalked into the centre of the living room and turned in a flurry of robe. “It begs the question why and how he found you. Why would he willingly search out a Vampire?”

 

What had Christine been doing in Whitechapel and more importantly, what had she been doing at the Docklands? They were the most dangerous and dirtiest part of London to date; Christine had preferred clean luxury to the grime-covered streets of London’s East End and all the other illicit little nooks of the city. Schuldig sunk into his thoughts, trying to make sense of it. Christine had mentioned the Felidae now and then but he had never detected anything more than a Vampire’s usual curiosity in her words. To think that she would seek them out, even follow them to places such as the East End, seemed impossible. He had known her to be curious, even a little adventurous at times, but she had never actively gotten herself in danger.

 

Until now. Now, danger had found and killed her.

 

He gave up trying to make sense of everything, his head feeling as though someone was slowly squeezing his brain in a tight fist. Around the closed shutters before their windows, the first rays of a cold, almost white sun crawled into the living room. Big Ben’s bells suddenly shattered the uneasy silence. Strange – the clock, one of London’s many landmarks, struck every hour but tonight Schuldig had not heard the bells for some reason.

 

Crawford looked at the rays of the sun painting striped shadows onto the floor and shook his head, giving a sigh that made him sound old and tired, as tired as Schuldig felt now. “It’s no use. It’s already daylight and we’ll never make heads or tails of this if we’re tired.” He nodded in the direction of the bathroom. “Are you going to wait for him?”

 

Nodding, Schuldig sat down on the arm of the couch and said, “Yes. I _have_ to talk to him. There’s...something about this all that tells me that Farfarello plays a role in this. I just need to figure out how.”

 

“Good night, then.” At the doorway, Crawford stopped, seemingly considering. He turned back and asked, “Don’t you think it’s strange that a Felidae and Christine were killed in the same way and at the same side of the river, within walking distance?”

 

The same thought he had had earlier. “Farfarello said the Felidae had been dead for a week.” _Human eyes in a cat’s face..._

 

“What was he doing there, then?”

 

“Waiting for the murderer to turn up? I don’t know, but that’s what he said. That’s one of the reasons why I have to talk to him.” He disliked the tone of Crawford’s voice and recognized it as suspicion all too clearly; although Schuldig had not quite gotten rid of every suspicion as far as Farfarello’s part in all this was concerned he could not imagine that he directly had something to do with Christine’s death. It was too easy a solution to lay the blame on him or any of his kind. As much as Schuldig might mistrust the Felidae as a whole, he trusted Farfarello’s words that they sought no trouble. “We must find the others as soon as it is night. The least we can do is warning them that there is a killer in the city.”

 

“I will take care of that.” Crawford inclined his head as though he was listening for sounds from the bathroom. “You always were the more inquisitive between the two of us.”

 

He had to smirk. “Does this mean we are going to play detectives?”

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps it just means that we are going to find whoever killed Christine and show him what it means to mess with Vampires.”

 

Crawford left him alone in the living room. Although Schuldig’s mind was reeling with questions that needed answers, he fell asleep waiting for Farfarello to come out of the bathroom, strangely persuaded that the Felidae would not try to seek revenge for his treatment at the Vampire’s hands. The night’s happenings took their toll and sent him dreams so vivid and cruel that he slept uneasily; perhaps it was the light of the sun gradually shifting through the room. He did not know. In his dreams, the same scene repeated itself over and over again: him, at the Thames, staring down at Christine’s corpse. Pale snakes moving. She would open her eyes and surprise him, as though she had only played her death like she so magnificently performed the roles of the tragic heroines in her plays, and laugh at him.

 

“Why Schuldig,” she said in his dream, lying on the gravel bank in her green taffeta skirt, “Curiosity kills the cat!”

 

Her cold grey eyes were not hers anymore but the eyes of a cat.

 

*********

**Chapter Two**

*********

 

_My kitten walks on velvet feet_

_And makes no sound at all;_

_And in the doorway nightly sits_

_To watch the darkness fall_

_I think he loves the Lady, Night_

_And feels akin to her_

_Whose footsteps are as still as his,_

_Whose touch as soft as fur_

\- Lois Weakly McKay

 

There is a tale told among the mortal, of the Vampire who rises from a dank, dark grave to haunt the night and the innocents sleeping in their beds. It is, of course, not true. No Vampire would ever sleep in a tomb or a crypt if there was a bed available; they did not like the sun, that much was true, but no Vampire would ever crumble to dust from its touch. Blinding lights, loud sounds, sharp aromas – preternatural senses did not take well to too much of anything.

 

Vampire tales – the fairytales of their Breed – had always amused and fascinated Schuldig with their simple explanations and hair-rising theories. At times he wanted to be like them, his paper brothers and sisters, whose strength never gave out unless they looked at a cross, whose bloodlust drained entire cities and brought fear of the dark into the hearts and minds of the mortals.

 

He felt all too mortal at times, plagued by the aches and fatigues commonly found among the human race. As he woke from uneasy sleep, stretched out uncomfortably on the living room couch, the muscles in his back protested the movement and a thundering headache blinded him. His stomach growled. He had not fed, his meal had been killed by a Felidae, and he had forgotten all about tending to his needs after the gruesome discovery at the banks of the Thames.

 

At least it was dark. He lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling with its tiny cracks and inevitable stains brought on by too many dank nights when they had left their windows open. It was chilly in the room now; the fire had burned down while he slept, allowing the September winds to chase every last shred of warmth from inside the walls. There was movement – footsteps, the rustle of clothes against skin – coming from the hallway outside. Crawford must have woken as well. He strained his ears and heard the familiar sounds of the comb being picked up from the commode, the clinks of cufflinks as they were lifted from their metal case.

 

Outside, Big Ben’s dull, echoing brass bells announced the coming of the ninth hour of the evening. He had slept long despite the dreams. Now that he was awake, their images faded from his mind as he tried to grasp them; as always, what occupied him during his sleep eluded him as soon as he woke. He sighed and closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them. In the centre of his skull, a tiny smith had taken up his hammer and relentlessly pounded it against the walls of Schuldig’s mind.

 

When he opened his eyes again he saw the cat sitting on the back of the couch. It sat on the very edge, in the very middle, and held absolutely still. The gaslights on Shaftesbury Avenue, their shine feebly penetrating the darkness in the living room, reflected off something metallic in the animal’s right ear. A tiny earring.

 

The scene was so surreal that Schuldig dared not to move at first lest he wanted to shatter it. He thought of the Egyptian cat statues in the London galleries, remnants of a culture that had gone down centuries before his birth. The Egyptians had loved their cats so much that they afforded them burials fit for kings and queens...preserved them in patient stone adorn with jewellery, the statue’s stone eyes staring for all eternity at something beyond anyone’s grasp. Farfarello did not look like one of those statues at all, but for a long moment Schuldig entertained the idea that, like the statues guarded graves, Farfarello had guarded him in his sleep. It was a silly notion, of course.

 

The Felidae appeared to be listening to something outside. Now that he watched him closely, Schuldig saw him sway ever so gently as though he was moving to a distant tune. Farfarello’s eyes were closed and remained so even as Schuldig slowly sat up and moved to the end of the couch to have a better view. Suspecting that Farfarello would not move even if he rose, the Vampire turned and reached for the matches lying on the table next to the couch. He lit the oil lamp standing on the table, looking back over his shoulder. The golden glow cast dark red highlights into the fur of the Felidae; he was not black, then, in his catkin form. The fur on his body merely resembled the hair on his head, its colour, as Schuldig had learned, hard to determine because it was so dark.

 

He was not all that big, either, and certainly smaller than the guards that sat outside his room in Mayfair. He looked like any cat on London’s streets, lean and sinewy, prowling the night for mice and rats. Had it not been for the earring and the four lines on his face where the fur parted ever so slightly, Schuldig knew no one would ever suspect Farfarello to be anything else but an ordinary cat.

 

Down the hallways, the door to Crawford’s room opened. The sound woke Farfarello from his statuesque silence; blinking amber eyes that eerily caught and trapped the light of the oil lamp, he looked around the room as though he was seeing it for the first time until he focused on Schuldig and yawned, treating the Vampire to the magnificent sight of needle-sharp canines that seemed abnormally long for a cat. He seemed not at all disturbed by the quickly approaching footsteps and only turned his head in the direction of the door as Crawford strode into the living room, stopping short as he saw the Felidae sitting on the back of the couch. Farfarello yawned again.

 

“Is that...?”

 

Schuldig nodded, transfixed by the _arrogance_ Farfarello suddenly displayed. It was so unlike his reaction to waking up in the bathroom surrounded by two Vampires.

 

_It’s not as though I’d have to fear anything from your teeth now, no? Or would you like a mouthful of fur?_

 

Farfarello’s voice rang so loud and clear in his mind that Schuldig rose, startled; Crawford seemed to have heard it too and gaped at the Felidae.

 

“How do you..?” Crawford caught himself first. “Is it telepathy?”

 

 _Yes. Or did you think I’d yowl and hiss my way through the hours I spend in this body?_ Farfarello lifted a paw and licked it, oblivious to the Vampires’ curious glances. He continued to groom, starting with his face, and ignored them.

 

Schuldig watched him for a moment and accepted the sudden transition from Farfarello the young man to Farfarello the cat. He had wondered before what the leader of the Felidae would look like; now that he saw it the visual impact was strangely anti-climatic. The use of telepathy explained now why his thoughts had been so easily heard by the Felidae. Was there a way around it? Schuldig frowned at the thought of a clan of cats listening to his every thought as soon as he came within their reach.

 

Farfarello shot him a glance and seemed to smile. Bastard, Schuldig thought. I hope you heard that, too. He turned to Crawford. “Are you going out now?”

 

“Yes.” The other Vampire still watched Farfarello, his expression teetering between curiosity and a frown. “I’ll visit the usual places and see who I can find. Who knows? Maybe the others have heard something.”

 

He nodded absent-mindedly, watching how Farfarello delicately tied his body into a knot and licked the inside of his left hind leg. It was so absurd. It was so fantastic. It was so _different_ that Schuldig knew he could have watched him for hours. He found it hard to reconcile the image of Farfarello in his black clothes and tousled hair with that of the cat grooming on the back of their living room couch. He saw Crawford leave out of the corner of his eye, heard the soft click of the front door as it shut behind the other Vampire.

 

As he sat down in Crawford’s usual place by the fire – and it seemed a matter of fact that Farfarello _owned_ the couch while he sat on it – Schuldig wondered if the change from man to cat and vice versa was triggered randomly or by will. And what did the change itself look like? He remembered the slaughtered cat at the Thames – a recurring image in his mind now – and shuddered; that poor beast must have been killed during a change, while it was at its most vulnerable. Or had it tried to change in order to escape death?

 

 _So many questions._ Farfarello stopped grooming and settled down, stretched out along the back of the couch, his tail end moving idly. _Perhaps I should start at the very beginning. There was Adam, and there was Eve..._

 

The slight teasing tone of Farfarello’s telepathic voice was equally amusing and annoying. “Does that mean you know which way the change was going?”

 

_Yes. From cat to human. The eyes always change first. You saw the eyes, didn’t you?_

 

He wished he would not remember it or be reminded of it all the time. Shifting uneasily in the chair as he was momentarily back at the Thames, pulling a cat’s eyelids up, Schuldig said, “I apologize for treating you like that.”

 

The Felidae waved a paw at the air in front of his face, the gesture reminding Schuldig of the one he had made last night, and said, _You said you wanted to talk to me. Talk._

 

“I’m not even sure where to begin,” Schuldig admitted. “I know there is a connection between the dead Felidae and Christine. I don’t know what it is, or how I know, but I know.”

 

 _The infallible instinct of a Vampire?_ Farfarello seemed amused. _Then clue me in, for I don’t see a connection anywhere. The dead brother has lain at the Thames for a week. The Vampire was killed last night._

 

“But they were killed in the same way,” Schuldig insisted. “Both ripped apart in the middle, and -”

 

The lifted paw bade him silence once more. _You forget that in this cat form, we are more vulnerable to things you might not even perceive as dangerous._ Farfarello’s voice became hard. _Dogs, humans – even a carriage, surprising one at a bad time, can be death for a Felidae._

 

“But -”

 

_You might be looking for a connection that isn’t there. Coincidence happens._

 

Even if it was a coincidence, it was still a strange one. Schuldig could not be persuaded of the fact that the two corpses had lain so close to each other because of happenstance. He was now more convinced than ever that Farfarello was keeping something from him. But what? Schuldig tried to hide his thoughts beneath a steady current of images he drew from the memory of last night; Christine at the river, the grime on his fingers, the heat of the fire as it devoured her body. There had to be a way to get around Farfarello’s telepathy _and_ getting him to open up a little more at the same time.

 

It seemed to work. The Felidae sounded positively annoyed and rose onto all fours, swiping his paw at the air once more. _Stop that. Your thoughts – it’s annoying. They’re like flies._

 

“Then don’t listen to them.” Schuldig smiled, feeling victorious, and leaned back in the chair. His stomach growled again, reminding him that he had to go out soon to feed. Thankfully, the headache had calmed down to bearable levels, leaving him with a slight pounding behind the temples that could easily be ignored. “You never told me why you moved your clan here in the first place.”

 

Farfarello seemed to be caught off-guard by the question. _What does it matter to you?_

 

“Perhaps it matters. Perhaps it doesn’t. I just can’t shake the feeling that you’re...somehow connected to all this. What you said at the Thames sort of stuck in my mind – that you had seen something like this before. At first I thought you meant the dead Felidae. But now I think you meant Christine. Have you?”

 

 _I see corpses almost every day_ , Farfarello said bluntly. He was clearly not comfortable with the direction Schuldig’s contemplations were going; jumping from the back of the couch onto the ground before it, the Felidae stalked over to the next window and looked up at it, studying the closed shutters. _My kind gets around a lot. We see a lot. We listen._

 

Schuldig smiled thinly. “You haven’t answered my question.”

 

_And I won’t. Be assured that yes, I_ _**have** _ _seen dead Vampires before, as I’ve seen dead Wer and dead Felidae. You are implying that I brought my kind here because we were running from something, maybe from the same thing that killed your friend._

 

“Thing? Why do you call it a ‘thing’?”

 

Farfarello became impatient. He turned from the window and, in one mighty jump, suddenly sat on Schuldig’s knee, staring up at the Vampire through narrowed cat-eyes. Schuldig’s first instinctual reaction was to push him off; he even raised his hand, but Farfarello gave him such a glare that he waited.

 

 _Why do you insist that I know something about it? Why do you insist that I have something to do with it? I brought you to your dead friend because I thought you might want to take care of the body, not because I wanted you to hack into me as though_ _ **I**_ _killed her._ The telepathic voice gained a level of sharpness and annoyance Schuldig found hurtful to his ears, the Felidae’s rage a palatable thing that pressed against his mind like a muffling cloth, shutting out all other sounds around them. _You are so typically_ _ **Vampire**_ _that it makes me sick! I saw you push a granite slab around as though it was nothing, yet you believe that it wasn’t a Vampire who killed your friend. What makes you so sure?_

 

Schuldig stared at him in silence, the sudden outburst telling him that they were quickly heading toward another skirmish. He wanted to defend his theory, his belief that a Vampire would not bother to desecrate another Vampire like this.

 

He suddenly remembered something Farfarello had said at the Thames. That he had returned to the corpse of the Felidae because he was waiting for the murderer to visit the site of his deed. But just minutes ago Farfarello had said that there could be any number of reasons for the dead Felidae.

 

He realized what Farfarello was doing and glared at him. “You are trying to lead me astray. So far you haven’t answered one of my questions truthfully.”

 

Unfazed by the accusation, Farfarello inclined his head in an all too human gesture. _What I know and what you will believe are two different things._

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

 _It means..._ He trailed off and tilted his head the other way, his ears twitching. _I have to go. They’re calling for me. Open the window. This...audience is at its end._

 

Schuldig heard nothing but the usual sounds from the street outside. Angry, he brushed the Felidae off his knee and stood. He knew he would not get a straight answer out of him, and the way Farfarello went about it neither threat nor plea would get him to open up. Thoroughly disappointed – he had hoped to find _some_ answers – he stalked to the window and pushed the shutters open.

 

And froze. On the roof of the house next to theirs, at least fifty cats were sitting and staring at him, their luminous eyes alight. Fifty cats in all shapes and sizes, but Schuldig could easily see that none of them were small. He saw the ruffled miniature lions from the house in Mayfair and took a step back from the window, their hostility and tenseness as palatable now as Farfarello’s anger. They sat there and watched him, never taking their eyes off him.

 

Farfarello sat where he had fallen after Schuldig pushed him off, his demeanour once more calm and kingly. _Thank you for the bath. I threw my clothes out of the bathroom window earlier and had someone pick them up, so there’s nothing to clean up._

 

Schuldig could not do much more than watch and silently gnash his teeth as the Felidae jumped up onto the windowsill. He wished he had something to say to Farfarello that would _make_ him open up and answer the questions. All Farfarello had done was confusing him entirely. He was no wiser now than he had been before their talk; in fact he was left with more questions.

 

“Don’t think this is over.”

 

 _You know where to find me._ Farfarello’s tone of voice was infuriatingly casual. He did not look at Schuldig again and simply jumped out of the window, leaving the Vampire to walk over to it once more and look out. Below the window, three floors down, he saw the shadow of a cat vanish around the corner.

 

The cats sitting on the roof of the other house moved slowly, as though they were waiting for him to make an antagonistic move that would threaten the life of their leader. He experienced the same sensation he had at the house in Mayfair – they were watching him hungrily, as though he was a plump, juicy morsel lying on a silver platter.

 

He gave them a contemptuous glare, thought they were all bastards and bitches anyway, and hoped they caught the thought.

 

\---

 

Although they were just fourteen vampires – no, thirteen now, with Christine gone – in London, there were two places where one could most easily find one of their kind. One was a distinguished pub in Chelsea, on the ground floor of a house standing at the corner of Cheyne Row, facing the Thames near Albert Bridge. Most vampires were lovers of the arts; Chelsea, once a peaceful riverside village, had been fashionable since Tudor times when Sir Thomas More, Henry VIII’s Lord Chancellor, lived there. Far enough from London’s busy centre while still retaining its artistic connections with its many galleries and antique shops, Chelsea invited to long walks through its picturesque streets and offered a minute of quiet with its tree-lined Embankment. Albert Bridge, famous for its hundred of lights that made it the most elegant of London’s bridges, was a quickly accessible route to the south side of the Thames. The pub in Chelsea was called “Bear at Arms” and was just one of many cosy establishments attracting artists and other breeds alike.

 

The other place was the “Raven”, a shop that did not advertise its existence to anyone outside the Vampire circles. It was located in the very heart of Bloomsbury, which was another of London’s artistic and intellectual centres. Hidden behind the inconspicuous façade of a small bookstore, its owners had long since concentrated on catering to the needs of their elitist clientele - such as Crawford and Schuldig – and specialized in offering everything a Vampire needed to pass unnoticed through the mortal world. Birth certificates, ownership documents and every other scrap of paper that ensured that no questions were asked were produced there. Schuldig had been his own son, grandson and ancestor for as long as he needed to verify his claims on mortal property, and always his slips of paper, his documents and certificates, had come from the “Raven”. Over the years, its fame had spread beyond the boundaries of London, and it was not uncommon that on a busy night one would see Vampires from Ireland or Scotland and sometimes even mainland Europe, sitting at the small tables in cosy chairs, whispering and laughing and trading news.

 

It was the sight of this peaceful atmosphere that greeted him as he entered, that made Schuldig again think that no Vampire had killed Christine. They might be predators feeding off the mortals, but their own were sacrosanct. He knew them so well, these monsters. They would never prey on their own.

 

Tonight though, there lay a veil of dullness over the tables, suffocating the peacefulness he expected. He saw Crawford’s familiar figure, sitting at a table in the very back of the shop, together with two others of their kind. He greeted Theodore, one of the two owners of the “Raven” who stood next to two splendidly dressed females, and joined his friend at the table.

 

“Good night to you,” George Thompson was a tall, heavyset man who appeared to be in his late fifties. Schuldig knew his real age – three centuries and counting – and cherished George’s exuberant and quite infectious good moods. Yet tonight George was sour-faced, his greeting lacking its usual enthusiasm. He sat leaned back against the chair, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his vest, and did not even seem to really see Schuldig as he sat down.

 

“Hello, Schu.” Next to George, Wilfred Spark, a thin, nervous creature with a mob of black hair and blacker eyes, chewed on a pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth. He had a rat’s face, with a pointed chin and an impossible wide mouth; his age was indefinable. When Schuldig first saw him, he had disliked him immensely until he learned that Wilfred could indeed be a lifesaver and if it was just by always having the much-needed joke ready in a gloomy situation.

 

Both were not what he would consider good friends, but just friends. Christine had been the only one he was really close to, with the exception of Crawford. “Hello.” He gave a pointed glance at the tables around them. “The word has been spread?”

 

“How could it not?” Wilfred sucked on his pipe, slowly shaking his head. “We all knew Christine. It’s a shame.”

 

“A goddamn shame, all right. Whoever took that poor girl down will have hell to pay for it.” George’s voice boomed, causing some of the Vampires on the other tables to look at him.

 

Schuldig caught Crawford’s look and gave an imperceptible shrug that caused his friend to sigh. They had been living in each other’s pocket for so long that an entire conversation could be conveyed through the lifting of an eyebrow; Schuldig knew that Crawford was curious how the conversation between him and Farfarello had gone and wondered what he was going to tell him. He was none the wiser. Farfarello had given him answers to questions that were not important and left the ones he _needed_ to have answers to aside.

 

Had he tried to make time? Distract Schuldig from something? The very vehemence with which he had denied knowledge made Schuldig believe that there was something Farfarello was not telling him.

 

“I’ve been to the Bear,” Crawford said into his ear as George and Wilfred continued to vow death and decay to Christine’s murderer. “The atmosphere there is as delightful as here. How did the talk go?”

 

“I’d rather not talk about it here,” Schuldig whispered, glancing around. He noticed that the occupants of the other tables – eight vampires all in all – were beginning to gravitate toward their table. “And I might have to talk to him again. He wasn’t telling me anything useful.” He considered, “In fact, he wasn’t telling me anything at all.”

 

“Who wasn’t telling you anything at all?”

 

The voice was gravely quiet and sent a shiver down Schuldig’s spine. He did not have to turn around to know who stood behind him; he could _smell_ the dust and earth on William Darcey’s clothes and skin. Turning in his chair, Schuldig let his elbow collide with William’s stomach on purpose; the Vampire had a habit of suddenly appearing behind others and listening in on what were supposedly private conversations. It made him the least-liked of the London predators.

 

Schuldig also knew that William had been madly in love with Christine.

 

William said, “There are strange things going on in London. First those fleabags turn up, infesting all of Mayfair with their _stench_. Now Christine dies.” Giving Schuldig a speculating glare, he continued, “Did you know that Christine’s been walking around Mayfair a lot lately? She was fascinated by those cats. Wanted to meet them and talk to them.”

 

That did not sound like the Christine he knew. Just as hearing about her strolling around the East End and the Docklands did not sound like her usual behaviour. Filing the observation away, Schuldig gave William a blank stare and shrugged, “So she was curious. In fact, she was the one to tell me about them in the first place, _and_ she said they were quite polite when she talked to them.”

 

“Maybe they don’t like Vampires snooping around ‘their’ territory. Maybe Christine asked one too many questions for their tastes.”

 

“William, shut up,” Wilfred Spark pushed the pipe to the other corner of his mouth and sighed. “It’s no use to make wild assumptions.”

 

William threw his head back and laughed, an ugly, harsh sound. Everything about him was harsh, Schuldig knew, from his manners to his ideals. William was old and powerful and Schuldig believed that disillusion and heartbreak had made him the bitter creature he was. “Crawford here tells us that you buried her body.”

 

“Yes, so? Should I have left her at the Thames, food for the rats?” Beneath the table, Crawford’s foot knocked against his ankle, warning him. Schuldig ignored it. This was not the first time he had verbally sparred with William; he usually came out as the winner. “And just to inform you, one of those _fleabags_ told me where I could find her. If it hadn’t been for him her death would be all over the papers now.”

 

“So he was the one who killed her.” The sharpness in Williams’s voice was acidic and aggravating, as was his logic. “I say we catch one of those cats and -”

 

“I say you shut your big mouth and calm the hell down.” Theodore Larkin’s voice echoed off the walls of the shop with a viciousness that surprised them all. They turned and stared at the owner of the “Raven”, who stood at the edge of the group of tables and glared back at them, “The Felidae are a Dark Breed like we are. Just because they are not _like_ us doesn’t make them killers.”

 

“Spoken like a true liberal,” William sneered. “Who’s never been fucked up the ass by one of them.”

 

“And I suppose you have?” George regarded him calmly. “What was it like? Was it good? Is that why you want to catch one of them – so you can bend over and spread your legs again?”

 

William turned an interesting shade of crimson and stormed from the shop, slamming the door so hard it rattled in its frame. Here and there, some of them chuckled about George’s crude words, but the atmosphere was tenser now than it had been before. Schuldig glanced at Crawford and rolled his eyes; his friend sighed and folded his hands on the table, shaking his head.

 

Theodore gazed at the door, turned to them, and said, “Shop’s closing. I’ve had enough for the night and I need to feed. Good night, gentlemen and ladies. Try not to get killed by _cats_.”

 

Several of them protested loudly, but Theodore left no room for discussion. While they filed out, muttering among themselves, Theodore tapped Schuldig on the shoulder and whispered, “I got that book you’re supposed to translate. Oh, and Crawford, I have something in the backroom you might want to take a look at.”

 

Which translated to: stay here, we need to talk. Schuldig and Crawford went outside with the others, chatted for a few minutes and then bade the other Vampires a good night. When the last of them turned the corner at the other end of the street, they went back inside the “Raven”. Theodore locked the door and pulled a heavy wooden plate in front of it, securing it with a deadbolt.

 

With the other Vampires gone, the shop looked deserted and empty. They followed Theodore into the backroom where he pursued his trade; stacks of parchment, stamps, ink and typewriters were scattered over several desks. Framed examples of documents and certificates hung on the walls, giving testimony to Theodore’s impressive skills as a forger. He closed the door to the backroom as well and sighed as he turned to them, “Where did you bury Christine, Schuldig?”

 

Taken aback by Theodore’s tone of voice, Schuldig frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

 

They had known each other for more than two centuries, ever since Theodore emigrated from Scotland during a famine in his homeland and sought solace in a region that was not dying of hunger and disease. “Calm down. I’m not William. But he’s been ranting and raving ever since Crawford told us about her death and I suspect he will try to find her.”

 

Crawford nodded and leaned against the edge of a desk. “As soon as I told of it, he started to ask questions. Wouldn’t let go of it.”

 

“She’s in a tomb in St. Paul’s...what remains of her, anyway.” Schuldig closed his eyes. “We burned her.”

 

“What?” Crawford and Theodore asked in unison, Theodore immediately following up with, “We?”

 

No use trying to hold it back now, and lying was out of the question. Although Schuldig suspected that telling them would only make them more suspicious of Farfarello – and since when was he trying to protect the leader of the Felidae from suspicion, anyway? – he also knew that he could trust Crawford and Theodore to not run off and grab the next random cat off the street. “She was torn apart in the middle. Her _entrails_ were all over the place. He burned what remained of her; I collected the bones and laid them in a tomb at the cathedral. Why is this so important? She’s dead. I don’t think burning her desecrated her any more than she already had been.”

 

Theodore shook his head. “No, I don’t think so either. And I suppose William won’t find her, either. Don’t know what he’d want with her corpse, anyway.” He stroked his fingertips over his chin, disturbing the perfectly arranged hairs of his beard, “You’ve talked to this Felidae? Does he have a name?”

 

“Yes. His name is Farfarello. He’s -”

 

The Vampire moved so suddenly that a stack of parchment was pushed off the edge of a desk and fluttered to the ground, a many-winged, papery creature. Theodore gaped at Schuldig, an expression of perfect horror on his face. Surprised, Schuldig took a step back and looked at Crawford, who was as flabbergasted as he.

 

“Farfarello?” Theodore asked weakly, his voice lacking his usual steadiness. “Are you sure?”

 

“Why, yes.”

 

“Oh god. That changes things.”

 

“Why? What do you mean?”

 

Theodore pulled a chair out and sat down heavily, sighing loudly. He shook his head and chuckled under his breath, but the sound lacked merriment and gave Schuldig a bad feeling. “He did not tell you his entire name, then. Farfarello Kinslayer. That’s what they used to call him. And if I were you I’d not mention this name around the others, least of all around William. Never around William.”

 

The name did not mean anything to Schuldig; he had never heard it before and could not make sense of it. Spreading his hands, he gave a helpless shrug and looked at Crawford. His friend was frowning, eyes fixed on the floor before his feet, as though he was trying to remember something. Finally, Crawford shrugged as well. “Never heard that name before.”

 

“If that Felidae is indeed Farfarello Kinslayer and not just an impostor, we have a real problem on our hands, my friends.” Theodore, still shaking his head to himself, gazed at the scattered parchment and continued almost dreamily, “I first heard of him when I was in Scotland. Just rumours, of course. That was a long time before either of you came to England. Anyway, word was that in the northern regions of Ireland, a coven of our kind had attacked a clan of them – on a whim, you might say. The times were harder back then than they are now. There weren’t enough mortals to feed on for either Vampire or Felidae, so the Vampires turned on the catkin for blood.”

 

_I am an Elder in my own right. What we do here is our business._

 

“They started with the young ones, their kittens. This is just hearsay, mind you, but I believe it. They had killed about half of their young ones after a month and tried to make it look as though the kittens had been attacked by dogs or wolves. Stupid, of course – the mortals were leaving those parts of the country and took their dogs with them and why would the wolves feed on _cats_ if there were abandoned and starving herds of sheep and cattle?”

 

_We don’t intend to take anyone’s territory and seek no trouble unless others seek trouble with us._

 

“They say that the leader of the Felidae clan tried to _talk_ to the Vampires. Talk! Have you ever tried to talk to a Vampire who’s half-mad with hunger? It’s impossible. The Felidae barely got away...and then called together the eldest and most powerful of his clan and attacked the Vampires.”

 

_I’ve had no reason to make our presence known here all too soon thanks to previous experience._

 

“But it wasn’t an open attack, and that’s how Farfarello gained his nickname. He’s known to be a sneaky son of a bastard; a manipulator and cruel strategist. A liar. He wanted to _play_ with the Vampires before he killed them. So he had some of his own kind killed and then trapped one of the Vampires, making sure the corpses would be found by the others.”

 

_You’re coming with me. Don’t you want to see the corpses?_

 

“Apparently he managed to make the Vampires believe that something _else_ had killed the Felidae and the one from their kind. As it was, since they didn’t believe that a Felidae could ever kill a Vampire, they soon turned on themselves, accusing each other of trying to...well, you know. Manipulate the food chain. Kill each other so there would be more food. They were really stupid enough – or desperate enough, those were dark times for any Dark Breed – to believe that they could survive if they fed on the Felidae and waited for the mortals to return to the country.”

 

_I can smell her. I can smell_ _**you** _ _._

 

“In the end, all he had to do was wait until they had started attacking each other. They say he didn’t have to wait for long.”

 

_You might be looking for a connection that isn’t there. Coincidence happens._

 

“I heard that in the end, he just waltzed in with a few of his clan and killed them.”

 

_You are so typically_ _**Vampire** _ _that it makes me sick! What I know and what you will believe are two different things._

 

Theodore came to the end of his story, staring at the ground. His hands were clasped in his lap, his head bowed, as though the memory alone had aged him in the last few minutes. A long moment of silence passed, during which only their breathing could be heard. Schuldig did not know what to think. He tried to make sense of what Theodore had told him, but his mind failed him, leaving him with a blank slate. Next to him, Crawford had frozen to a statue.

 

Finally, Theodore said softly, “Of course, other Vampires tried to take revenge for their kin. They should have just left it alone. Farfarello is ancient and powerful, but he hides that power. You say he burned Christine corpse? That is nothing in comparison to what he did to those who went after him and his clan.” He bent down and picked up one of the sheets of parchment, carefully brushing his hand over it. “He must have picked up a liking for playing with them over the years. What he is doing here now I don’t know. But I think we know now who might have killed Christine.”

 

“What has William to do with all of this?” Crawford asked.

 

Theodore chuckled darkly and set the sheet of parchment on the desk to his left. “William Darcey is one of the Vampires of the original group who got away. He left just days before Farfarello played his final hand.” Hesitating, the Vampire glanced at Schuldig. “The other one who got away was Christine.”

 

That last sentence woke Schuldig from his semi-trance. He found it hard to breathe; faced with the truth in Theodore’s words he finally saw the lies in what Farfarello had told him. “Well,” he said softly, “That does indeed change things.”

 

“That’s why William mustn’t be told at all costs. If he learns of his own accord, then it’s out of our hands.” Theodore rose from the chair and crossed his arms, still gazing at the parchment. “You two don’t know him that well, but I do. William can be a good friend if he’s not in one of his moods, leaving his characteristic quirks aside. But I think that the death of Christine and the sudden appearance of the catkin have pushed him a little too far. If he learns that it’s _Farfarello’s_ clan, there will be a slaughter like none this city has seen before.”

 

“How can he _not_ learn of this?” Crawford shrugged. “The more _I_ learn about this, the more I think Farfarello is here to settle an old score.”

 

Was he? Schuldig was not so sure. He knew that what Theodore had just told them was what he had suspected Farfarello of not telling him – and why would he? With a past like that, Schuldig knew _he_ would keep this secret, too – but would Farfarello be stupid enough to try and pull the same trick twice? On someone who had witnessed it the first time, no less? Why now?

 

The longer he had listened to Theodore, the angrier he had become, but now, thinking it over, the anger made way for a dull sense of foreboding. It was too easy an explanation. It clashed so completely with one of Schuldig’s first impressions of Farfarello – cradling that kitten to his chest, holding it as though it was one of his most prized possessions – that he could not bring himself to believe that the Felidae he had talked to was the same Kinslayer Theodore knew. If Farfarello was indeed the same.

 

There was something else behind it. He did not know it. He knew it.

 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Crawford regarding him with a contemplative, knowing look. Something in his friend’s eyes was twinkling, and Schuldig was sure it was amusement. Even Theodore was smiling lightly as he said, “Your curiosity will be the death of you one day.”

 

“I can’t help it.” Schuldig rubbed his temples and felt his stomach growl again. He was hungrier now than he had been in a long time, and as much as he wanted to come to the grounds of what was going on, he had to cater to his needs. “I’ve talked to Farfarello. Even if he lied...no, he _did_ lie, but there is something about him that...”

 

He trailed off, unsure about his words. It was so clear! They had a perfect reason for Christine’s death right before their very eyes and her murderer had taken a _bath_ in Schuldig and Crawford’s apartment to boot. Old hatred and an old score made for very good reasons to kill someone.

 

It did not convince him. Finally, Schuldig said, “I have to talk to Farfarello again.”

 

“Be careful. You talked to him before, didn’t you?” Theodore opened the door to the backroom and stepped out, waiting for Schuldig and Crawford to follow. “There is something going on here that may bring us all into grave danger.”

 

“What is your opinion? Do you think Farfarello did it?”

 

He hesitated at Schuldig’s question, “I don’t know. What I do know about him I learned from others. But Christine is dead, and Farfarello is here, along with his entire clan, and I know I will be very, very careful from now on. And so you should be.”

 

It was nearing midnight as they left the “Raven”, waiting in front of the house until Theodore had replaced the wooden board, and walked toward Covent Garden. It was not until they reached the Seven Dials at the crossing of Shorts Gardens and Earlham Street that Crawford said, “You are too fascinated by that catkin.”

 

Schuldig, hands buried in his pockets against the chilly September wind, had not paid much attention to his friend and kept his eyes on the street before him. He went through Theodore’s story, over and over again, but he came to the same conclusion each time: that there was still something missing in the puzzle of Christine’s death. At Crawford’s words, he looked up. “What do you mean?”

 

“Schuldig, I remember what you told me about Cologne.” Crawford stopped at the curb and looked up at the Seven Dials, a statue that showed seven sun clocks at its very top. “I’ve been waiting for you to run to Mayfair and start killing the Felidae for a day now, and yet you’re here, blatantly trying to find something that will take the blame off Farfarello’s shoulders.”

 

Annoyed, Schuldig socked Crawford in the arm. “I probably _would_ be doing the very same thing if I didn’t have doubts about the blame in the first place.”

 

“How very unlike you. What makes you think Farfarello is innocent?”

 

“I didn’t say he’s innocent. If he’s the same Farfarello Theo spoke of then he’s far from innocent. I know he lied to me – or at least withheld a lot of information. But who am I that he has to surrender his entire past to my knowledge?” Schuldig looked up at the Seven Dials and frowned. Farfarello had told him as much – that their business here was their own. “For all we know it could be William himself.”

 

“William loved Christine. You know that as well as I do.”

 

“Yes. But suppose William wants to settle a score of his own? Suppose he turned the tables?” He stopped himself before he could go on, realizing with stinging clarity that he was pursuing an avenue of thought Farfarello had accused him of not being able to even contemplate. But now that the train had left the station, it was too late to stop it. “Suppose William learned that Farfarello’s clan arrived in London. He gets around a lot, and as far as I know he lives near Mayfair. So he kills Christine, kills the Felidae, and then tries to get us to help him take care of the rest of them. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

 

“You are assuming that he knows it’s Farfarello. He didn’t know his name just an hour ago.”

 

“You were to one who said we are going to play detectives. I’m just thinking out loud. Nothing makes a lot of sense right now.” Sighing, Schuldig turned toward Covent Garden and waited for Crawford to catch up with him. “Theo said William and Christine got away back then. Wouldn’t Christine have had the same hatred for the Felidae Williams seems to have, then? Wouldn’t she have remembered? And that bit about Christine walking around the Docklands and the East End won’t go out of my head. It doesn’t make sense. I -”

 

“ _I_ think we should postpone those contemplations and feed,” Crawford interrupted him softly. “And then you can go to Mayfair and talk to that catkin again.”

 

“Yes, daddy. As always, you are the voice of reason.”

 

It was Crawford’s turn to sock Schuldig in the arm.

 

\---

 

Vampires often went insane over the centuries. It was a dire fact known to their entire kind. There was no explanation for it. Some of the more philosophical members of their kind had tried to put it down to the sheer brunt of years on their minds, but Schuldig had never believed in those theories. He was nearing his eigth century, a good age for a Vampire, and so far he believed that all was right with his mental state. There certainly were no indicators that spoke against his sanity. He had his heartaches and heartbreaks to look back upon, memories that had begun to fade the older he became, but none of them had ever shaken him so completely from his own safe hell that he had acted rashly or without reason.

 

Only once had sanity left him. Only once had he acted like the Vampires of the mortals’ fairytales and slaughtered without regard for cause and effect. Cologne was not a place he cared to revisit in his mind, much less in body; that memory was one of those that faded slower than the others. Especially now that his mind was occupied with the very same problem he had had back then – Felidae – did the memory insist on sitting behind his eyes like a softly laughing ghost.

 

Christine sat next to that ghost, taunting him with her enigmatic smiles. Both combined made for a very interesting melee of emotions; the foremost was confusion that needed answers. It did not help that the confusion itself evolved around Farfarello.

 

Crawford was right. He _was_ fascinated by Farfarello. The sheer differences between them made him interesting. Schuldig idly contemplated that it was this very interest in the Felidae that probably caused the annoyance he experienced at Farfarello’s refusal to open up to him. Now, an illicit thrill had been added. The thought of spending time with someone who had so methodically done away with some of Schuldig’s kind was like licking at blood flowing from the wound of a person you knew had been poisoned with arsenic. Farfarello did not _look_ dangerous. Schuldig would probably forever remember the look of sadness on his face as he was robbed of the rat’s tail.

 

So perhaps all was not right with his mental state, after all.

 

He had planned to feed and then directly be on his way to Mayfair; instead, his feet carried him along Charing Cross Road and Northumberland Avenue toward the Victoria Embankment, where he stood at the railing and stared out over the Thames at the Jubilee Gardens on the other side of the river. It was past midnight now. Due to the progressively colder nights, the Embankment was almost deserted by the time he arrived. He did not mind the silence; the thoughts chasing one another through his mind were loud enough to keep him company.

 

Unsurprisingly, all of them were centred on Farfarello. With just two meetings, the Felidae had managed to carve himself a niche in Schuldig’s thoughts he did not seem to be willing to give up again.

 

Had the circumstances been different, Schuldig would probably be courting him now.

 

“Courting him? You’d be courting death, my friend.”

 

He turned at the sound of the familiar voice, the unwelcome realization that he had not even _felt_ the presence of the Felidae standing behind him under one of the trees lining the Embankment making him grit his teeth. Hiding his surprise - and alarm – under a mask of nonchalance, Schuldig looked Anna up and down, noting that she wore the same clothes he had first seen her in. It made him wonder how they really lived – all squeezed into that one house in Mayfair, large as it may be, with a single set of clothing for the hours they spend in their human bodies?

 

“And what hours they are,” Anna said, her eyes looking out over the Thames as she walked up to him. “He promised us London would be a wonderful city, and he was right. I am in love with it. The lights, the people – everything he promised us is true.”

 

There was no point in asking her to leave his thoughts alone. Instead, Schuldig picked an image – Big Ben’s imposing height, sticking out from London’s fog like a needle – and held it up before his inner eyes. It seemed to work. Anna gave him a long, calculating stare before she sighed and leaned on the railing next to him.

 

“Not all of us can do this, you know? The young ones...they are changing. Adapting. Or degenerating, take your pick.” She sighed again. “Only the older ones still manage to work the tricks of our trade.”

 

“You speak of it as though you were a band of travelling thieves.”

 

“Perhaps we are.”

 

He demeanour now was different from the brash way she had acted the first time he saw her. Schuldig turned to face her and studied her profile, noting the almost wistful way with which she looked out over the dark water of the river. There was a small stain in the corner of her mouth. Blood. She must have come upon him after hunting. Were there others around, watching them? Schuldig tried to scent the wind until he realized that with her so close to him, there was no way he would be able to pick up anything else but that spicy scent.

 

“And perhaps we are not.” Anna pushed an errant strand of black hair behind one ear. “The Vampires always _had_ a rather strange view of us. I don’t blame you for having the wrong impression.”

 

“I suppose that goes both ways.” The remark had needled him enough that Schuldig wished she would – he concentrated, upholding Big Ben before his eyes once more, and said through clenched teeth, “Clever girl.”

 

She snickered and gave him an impish look from under her mob of black hair. “Like I said. Tricks of the trade.”

 

“Why are you here, Anna? To make small talk?”

 

“To ask of you why there are Vampires in Mayfair.” Anna’s voice acquired a less teasing tone, her dark eyes narrowed. “For two months we have lived in peace. Then you turn up and demand to speak to our leader, and now we see others of your kind stalking the streets and hiding around corners as though _they_ are the thieves.”

 

“You know as well as I do that a Vampire was killed yesterday night.” It was probably William Darcey who had appeared in Mayfair. Schuldig was not surprised, especially now that he knew about the background of William’s obvious hatred of the catkin. “And that a Felidae died as well.”

 

“We did not kill the Vampire. We do not know who killed the Felidae.”

 

“So Farfarello tells me.” He let a long pause follow before he asked, “Were you there when he killed the others in Ireland? Why are you _here_ , Anna? Why did Farfarello lead you to London?”

 

She gave him a long, unfathomable glance, sighed, and turned away. Schuldig had expected her to deny knowledge about what he was talking about and was surprised as she said, “I wasn’t there. But I know about it. The others told me about it.”

 

He took a chance. “Then you know that the Vampire who was killed yesterday night was one of two Vampires who managed to escape back then?”

 

Her surprise seemed genuine enough. “No. I didn’t know.” Hesitating, Anna picked at a loose thread of her shirt, looking around. He followed her gaze but saw nothing; trees, houses, and shadows. Were there others, watching them now? Slowly, she asked, “Was that Vampire who was killed a friend of yours?”

 

“Yes. And I plan to find out who killed her. Aren’t you interested in who killed the catkin?”

 

“We die every day. Death isn’t such a terrible thing for us as it is for the other Dark Breeds because there are so many of us.” Anna frowned, her lips moving as though she was trying to find the right words, “We mourn, but dead is dead. Why mourn for the dead if there are young ones to raise?”

 

From a cattish point of view, it made sense. But apparently ‘dead is dead’ had meant ‘they might be dead but I’ll make sure someone else is going to die for them’ to Farfarello once. He thought of something he had wondered before. “How large is the clan?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“I’m curious. Enlighten me.”

 

“One hundred and seventy-two, including all young ones.”

 

Incredible. And here he had thought fourteen Vampires in London were a large and impressive number. He measured Anna with a glance once more and could not help wondering if she had already young ones of her own. The thought of her, in a woman’s body, taking care of a litter of kittens...had Farfarello spawned offspring? Surely he must have. Schuldig thought of the harem of cats and the kitten in their leader’s hands, how he had cut the rat tail and planned to bring it home to them. The thought of Farfarello as a father was disturbing for reasons Schuldig could not fathom.

 

“It is getting late,” Anna said, rubbing her arms. She glanced at him as she stepped away from the railing and turned toward Mayfair, her steps so light that he did not hear her even though she stood no more than arm’s length away from her. “Farfarello is at the house...”

 

“Just how long did you stand there?”

 

She grinned, but in a good-naturedly way. “Long enough. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

 

‘Beautiful’? Cunning, yes. Mysterious, certainly. Dangerous? Of course. There was not a single member of any of the three Dark Breeds that was not dangerous in their own right. Yet ‘beautiful’ was not a word Schuldig would have used to describe Farfarello.

 

He decided not to answer and fell in step with her, waiting as she walked beneath the tree and picked up a wrapped bundle. For a moment, he entertained the somewhat sickening idea that there was another child’s corpse in it, but Anna noticed his inquiring glance and said, “Blankets. Those I stole them from won’t need them anymore.”

 

“You steal, and yet you said that Vampires aren’t the only ones who have money.”

 

She shrugged and hefted the bundle over her shoulder. “Waste not, want not.” Looking around once more, she strode away. “Let’s go. It’s a long way still.”

 

It was not until he stood in front of the house that Schuldig realized that Anna had not answered his question either. He still had no idea what the Felidae clan was doing in London. On their way to Mayfair, she had kept talking, making remarks about the city and how much she loved it. It made him wonder where the clan had lived before. Theodore’s story left him in no doubts to the fact that after the slaughter, the Felidae must have left Ireland and emigrated to escape the famine wrecking the land. Christine had told him that they had arrived by ship – and how had she known about this fact? – so it was more than likely that they had been in Europe before. He wanted to ask Farfarello about it although he knew that he would likely get another evasive lie as answer.

 

Anna left him standing on the porch of the house and vanished into a side street, her breath leaving plumes of white clouds in the air. He tried the door and found it open. Stepping inside, he could not get rid of the impression that he was being watched, but when he turned around there was only the silent street behind him. The rooftops were empty.

 

So was the house. Schuldig heard no sound as he walked up the stairs to find the hallway, guarded by those rugged cats the first time, deserted as well. Out of caution, he kept concentrating on the image that had helped him against Anna’s telepathy; Big Ben in all its lonely glory slowly disintegrated as the door at the end of the corridor was pushed open and Farfarello stepped out.

 

“Back so soon? We just parted a few hours ago.”

 

No. Anna had been right. He _was_ beautiful. Schuldig walked up to the Felidae, holding on to Big Ben, and said, “So we meet again, and this time I want _real_ answers.”

 

Farfarello lifted a shoulder in a tiny shrug and walked back into his ‘throne room’, leaving it to Schuldig to close the door. To the Vampire’s relief, he saw that there were no cats on the pillows in front of the bed. The thought that Farfarello had indeed been waiting for him came unbidden. Schuldig watched him find his way through the chaotically arranged furniture and settle down on the edge of a table near a window.

 

“Where are the others?”

 

“I sent them away.” With his back to the window, Farfarello’s face was bathed in shadows and made it hard for Schuldig to see much of his expression. There were candles, but fewer had been lit than last time. “You met Anna?”

 

“Yes. Or rather, she met me.” Looking for a seat, Schuldig gingerly sat down on a trunk that stood next to an upturned vanity table. Why was this room so chaotic? “Did you send her?”

 

“No.”

 

“Were you waiting for me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The short, blunt answers alerted Schuldig. “What is wrong?”

 

Farfarello reached out for something that lay behind him on the table and swung his arm around. The small bundle – nothing more than a dark shape sailing through the air – landed on the floor before Schuldig with a dull, _meaty_ thud.

 

Aggravation at the careless handling of the corpse met with a feeling of pity as Schuldig looked down at the twisted form of the kitten that lay before his feet. Its maw was open, showing the tips of a pink tongue sticking out between small white canines. The body was whole; it showed no signs of desecration but Schuldig knew the marks and saw the puncture wounds on its neck despite the poor light. He reached down and picked it up, carefully turning it toward the nearest candle. The small body was nearly weightless in his hands. It had been drained completely, then, which explained why he had not smelled anything when he entered the room. Several of its ribs seemed to be shattered.

 

“You can’t tell me that this wasn’t one of you,” Farfarello’s voice was low and sharp, letting Schuldig guess at the anger he was holding inside. This time he did not seem to mind Schuldig’s hands on a corpse of his kin. “Attack me, attack the old ones if you want, but leave our _children_ out of this. What kind of monsters are you to feed on and kill a _kitten_?”

 

And yet you feed on children yourself. He did not care if Farfarello caught the thought; he knew that everything he said in defence now would be met with more anger. He laid the corpse onto the vanity table and faced the Felidae. Farfarello did not seem to have heard. He sat on the edge of the table, gripping the plate so hard Schuldig heard the wood crack, and bared his teeth at the Vampire. Even in his human form, Farfarello’s canines were longer than usual, looking like vampiric baby teeth.

 

“I said we seek no trouble with others, but if your kind starts preying on our young ones there will be a war, I promise that much.”

 

“That’s something you have experience in, don’t you, Kinslayer?”

 

The name hung between them like a slowly swinging pendulum. Schuldig waited for a reaction, almost holding his breath in anticipation, and was sorely disappointed as Farfarello only slumped a little and looked to the side.

 

“So you know.”

 

“Yes. And I was rather...surprised to learn? Although surprise isn’t the right word for it. Let me say I was ‘taken aback’ by what I heard.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the Felidae, hearing Theodore’s voice utter a warning in the back of his head: _Farfarello is ancient and powerful, but he hides that power._ Now, though, there was nothing powerful about him. He watched Schuldig come closer, shoulder’s hunched, his face blank. The sudden change from blazing anger to this subdued dullness added another warning voice to Theodore’s; it could be a mask, nothing but a façade as the cat in Farfarello tried to lure him in...what? Safety? “How can you...where do _you_ take the right to say these things with a past like yours?”

 

Despite the flickering lights, the pupils of the catkin were mere points of black. The scars on his face seemed more visible now, as though the shadows carved them deeper into his skin. “That’s the beautiful thing about the past, Schuldig. It is _past_.”

 

“And what happens now has nothing to do with it?” The loudness of his own voice startled him. “I know about Christine. I know about William. I know what you did to them. Tell me this has nothing to do with what happened in Ireland. Tell me, and then try to make me believe it.”

 

Farfarello did not reply. He stared up at Schuldig for so long and kept completely still, so much so that the Vampire began to think that he had sunken into a trance.

 

It angered Schuldig. The answers were right here! Yet Farfarello refused to even ascertain what Schuldig _knew_. Grabbing the front of the Felidae’s tunica, he yanked him up from the table and shouted, “Say something, god damn you!”

 

Farfarello twisted in the grip, nearly broke Schuldig’s fingers as he yanked them off his tunica, and threw him across the room. It happened too quickly for the Vampire to realize what _was_ happening as he crashed into a piece of furniture, which shattered under his impact. Pain laced up his back, momentarily robbing him off his breath as he floundered. He reached for something to pull himself out of the closet he had destroyed and toppled over with his weight and felt strong fingers close around his wrist with bruising strength. Splinters of wood stuck to his coat and pants as he was ripped up; cloth tore, something metallic hit the ground – then he was airborne again as Farfarello threw him once more. Schuldig managed to twist around in midair, finally getting his senses back together, and hit the mirrors on the other side of the room feet first. The resulting crash of splintering glass and falling shards was interrupted – drowned out by a sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he landed on the floor in a crouch.

 

Farfarello’s head was thrown back, exposing his throat. Sinewy cords of muscle stretched the thin skin as the Felidae opened his mouth and _screamed_ at the ceiling, his back arching. Schuldig thought he could hear the scream echo off the walls and clasped his hands over his ears as Farfarello’s voice reached an intensity and sharpness that froze the blood in his veins. It seemed to bounce off the mirror shards on the ground and reverberate from every piece of furniture inside the room. It kept echoing even as Farfarello snapped his head back down, eyes ablaze as though every single candle in the room suddenly burned behind them, and bent his fingers into claws, stalking forward.

 

He was going to attack. Schuldig could read it in his every move, saw it in the murderous expression on his face. Crouching lower, the Vampire readied himself to counter the attack, waiting for a moment to strike. One clean hit, enough to clear the way to the door, out of this room where every piece of furniture was a possible death trap. He felt blood run down his back where splinters had pierced the skin and gritted his teeth. Then he burst forward and rammed Farfarello.

 

Or tried to. Anger seemed to have given the Felidae strength that matched Schuldig’s. He heard him grunt as his shoulder ploughed into Farfarello’s stomach and tried to shove him aside only to feel a hand slap down on the back of his neck and push him to the ground. Farfarello’s boots scraped over the floor as the impact forced him backward, but he bent forward and did not fall. Blindly reaching up as he saw the floor approach at an alarmingly fast pace, Schuldig managed to twist onto his side and grab a hold of Farfarello’s tunica, pulling him down with him as he hit the floor. Something in his shoulder screamed in agony as he rolled onto his back – and froze, eyes flying open.

 

Farfarello’s teeth tightened ever so slightly over Schuldig’s throat as the Vampire became aware of their position and slowly let go of the tunica. With most of the Felidae’s weight leaning heavily on his chest, it was all Schuldig could do in his sudden terror; he had yanked Farfarello right down on himself and, rolling over, bared his throat to him. Now the other was crouched over him like a nightmare, his head wedged in between Schuldig’s chin and collarbones. One of Farfarello’s hands was buried in the hair at the side of Schuldig’s head in such a tight grip that the Vampire thought he was going to tear the skin off his skull. His other hand was splayed over Schuldig’s stomach, pressing him down against the floor.

 

Trapped.

 

Fear was something Schuldig did not experience often. When you were immortal, what was there to be afraid of? Having someone else’s teeth at his throat sharply reminded him that he _was_ mortal. With blinding clarity, the Vampire knew that if Farfarello ripped his throat out now, he would bleed to death.

 

For endless seconds, all Schuldig could do was breathe. Even that seemed to cause the tips of Farfarello’s teeth to sink deeper into his skin. He tried to move his arm and realized that the Felidae was kneeling on his right one while his left was trapped between their bodies.

 

“Let go.” The words came out on a rush of breath and were a mere whisper. Even that whisper made him aware of Farfarello’s teeth; he could feel his voice reverberate in his own throat and shuddered. “Let me go.”

 

The hand that was splayed on his stomach moved, trailing upward over his stomach, the bow of his ribcage, and settled over his heart. Fingers clenched into the material of his shirt, bunching it. Farfarello’s weight shifted, allowing him to free his trapped arm. He reached up and sank his fingers into the Felidae’s hair, not to caress but to hold, to hold back should Farfarello suddenly decide to tear into him after all. There were no words, no whispers in his mind, nothing that gave Schuldig any indication of what was going through Farfarello’s head at this very moment. Schuldig stared at the ceiling and knew what it was to be dinner.

 

A soft snort against the sensitive skin of his throat made him jerk in alarm. Incredulously, he listened to the chuckles that bubbled from Farfarello’s throat. The bastard was _laughing_ at him! His fingers clenched in Farfarello’s hair. Blowing all caution to the wind, Schuldig gave a firm yank.

 

“Let go I said!”

 

The feeling of needle-sharp teeth skimming over the skin of his throat made him arch his back and shudder, but anger sent him past the point of caring. He yanked Farfarello’s head up as much as he could, his other arm still trapped under the Felidae’s knee, and glared at him. The sight of his blood-streaked lips fuelled his anger. He shifted his grip from Farfarello’s hair to his throat and squeezed, ignoring the fact that he was in the less fortunate position in the face of the sharp, small smile sitting those bloody lips.

 

“You will _never_ do that again.”

 

Farfarello shifted so quickly Schuldig was once more left breathless. If he had not known better he could have sworn there was a bit of a Vampire in the Felidae; the swiftness of his movement left Schuldig gaping up at him as Farfarello reached up, wrapped his free hand around Schuldig’s wrist and slammed his arm down against the ground at the same time as he straddled him and sat down on his chest. Frozen, Schuldig lost sight of everything around him as the Felidae slid his hand from his hair down to his other arm and closed his fingers around that wrist as well.

 

Farfarello bent down until his face was all Schuldig could see and whispered, “What makes you think you can stop me?” His breath stirred the hair at Schuldig’s ear as he rubbed his cheek against the Vampire’s, a gesture that would have been intimate in any other situation had Schuldig not felt like a mouse being played with. “ _They_ couldn’t. What makes you think _you_ can?”

 

“What are you talking about?” His own voice not much louder than Farfarello’s whisper, Schuldig turned his head and realized that simply by bending down, the Felidae had bared his throat to him now. That close to him it was easy to drown in his scent. He flinched as the tip of Farfarello’s tongue moved over his earlobe, the sudden wetness and following breath of cool air setting his nerve endings afire. “Is that why you sent them away?” He laughed, still a breathless sound. The thought that Farfarello had known – had most likely picked Schuldig’s interest out of his head and translated it for what it was – had been _waiting_ for him to appear, made him feel light-headed. “You are the most confusing creature I’ve ever met.”

 

“You’re not protesting.”

 

“What happened to not wanting a Vampire’s hands get all over you?”

 

“I’ve changed my mind.”

 

Farfarello sat up slowly and dragged Schuldig’s hands onto his stomach, pressing the Vampire’s palms against the rough cloth of his tunica. His demeanour had changed tracks from aggressive predator to sensual creature so quickly that Schuldig still wondered where he had missed the railroad sign when he noticed that his hands were now under the tunica, mapping the hard plane of Farfarello’s stomach. Still straddling him, Farfarello calmly watched him, the expression on his face unreadable. His hands rested lightly on Schuldig’s chest, fingertips moving the cloth of the shirt back and forth in tiny increments.

 

No, he was not protesting. Farfarello’s heavy-lidded eyes sucked him in and made him forget about Christine, about William. What remained was a tiny voice in the back of his mind, telling him to be careful, to keep in mind what, who Farfarello was. Schuldig found it easy to ignore as he moved the hem of the tunica up and Farfarello transformed the movement into an arch of his back that slid the tunica over his head almost magically. Tracing the curve of hip bones, muscle and scars upward Schuldig flicked his thumbs over hard nipples. He could have sworn he heard Farfarello purr, or moan, or something in-between, but then the Felidae’s hands were on his chest and he heard that voice again, warning him.

 

Slowly and deliberately, Farfarello gripped his shirt and pulled opposing ways, popping buttons, and Schuldig told the voice to go to hell.

 

“We already are in hell,” The sound of tearing cloth was not loud enough to drown out Farfarello’s low voice. He dragged his hands over Schuldig’s chest, briefly letting him feel the edges of short but _sharp_ fingernails as he circled the area over the Vampire’s heart with the tip of a finger.

 

Arching under the almost too light touch, Schuldig reached for Farfarello’s shoulders to pull him down and said, “I didn’t pay any entrance fees. Ah!” His hands flew to his chest but Farfarello was once more faster, catching them before he could reach the line of fire that crossed his left pectoral and bled warmth down his ribs. Holding them firmly to the ground, Farfarello bent down, obscuring Schuldig’s view. The Vampire caught sight of a deep, bleeding scratch down his chest and the tip of Farfarello’s tongue snaking out to catch the drops of blood rolling down the side of his ribcage. He followed their red traces back to the scratch and closed his mouth over it, tongue trashing against Schuldig’s nipple; suckling, milking the blood from him until the Vampire thought his entire heart would be sucked out through the tear in his skin.

 

The scratch could not have been deep but to Schuldig it felt as though all feeling was draining from his arms and legs, narrowing his awareness down to Farfarello’s mouth against his skin. Lips parting to release a shuddering gasp, he realized that this was the closest he could ever come to death without dying. His fingertips prickled like they did when he came in from a cold winter night and warmed his hands by the fire. Everything below his waist did not exist anymore. He did not feel Farfarello let go of his wrists but felt the other’s arms as they wound around him, forcing his back to arch even more.

 

When Farfarello pulled back, his lips and chin were smeared with blood. “Now you have.” He brought his face close to Schuldig’s and rubbed their lips together. Tasting his own blood on someone else’s mouth made the Vampire feel uneasy but the sensation faded quickly as the rubbing deepened into a careful kiss. They were very aware of the sharpness of each other’s teeth; Schuldig would have been less careful with another Vampire but this was a Felidae, this was Farfarello, who tasted of Vampire blood, spices and something sharp, like the aftertaste alcohol leaves on your tongue and just as dangerously addictive.

 

An eternity passed while they kissed. Schuldig was quite content to see it go.

 

Finally, tiny pinpricks of pain slowly dragged him out of the endless, murky swamp of desire he was drowning in. He needed a moment to focus, to realize that Farfarello’s arms pressed against the injuries on his back, and pulled back from the kiss with regret. Shifting in the tight embrace, he realized something else.

 

Farfarello was rather heavy, sitting on his stomach and hips like that. Now that Schuldig was distracted from the kiss, the uncomfortable position they were in decided to claim his attention, demanding that he do something to change it. Yet whichever way he shifted, those arms around his middle would not move even an inch.

 

Farfarello watched him calmly, amusement tugging a corner of his mouth up. The bastard had been eavesdropping on that entire train of thought! With a growl that was more playful than serious in nature, Schuldig pushed his foot against the ground and rolled them over, rather surprised as he ended up on top all of a sudden. He used the superior position to blissfully grind his hips against the Felidae’s groin, receiving a demanding, breathy groan. His own painful moan got added to the mix as Farfarello reached up and around him, dragging his fingernails down the Vampire’s back.

 

“Are you trying to mark me?” Schuldig asked, eyes narrowing with the pain. He could feel every of the ten little furrows that must now be on his back, among scratches and splinters and dried blood slowly sticking his shirt to his skin.

 

“I don’t have to,” Farfarello answered, a strange glint in his eyes. He did not seem to mind the almost obscenely vulnerable position; legs wrapped loosely around Schuldig’s hips, his hands now rested on the small of the Vampire’s back, his fingertips drawing circles against the cloth of the coat. Schuldig once again had the feeling that there was something more to his words, something that he would not say, but he let it go. Finally, when the silence began to stretch and became uncomfortable, Farfarello said, “Let’s move this to the bed.”

 

He could not have agreed more and lost his coat and shirt on the way there. Ever self-conscious – he had lived in this body too long to not be aware of its shortcomings, its flaws – Schuldig could not help feeling proud as Farfarello gave him an once-over and nodded in appreciation. He sat down on the edge of the bed, testing the solidity of the mattress with a hand.

 

“I wonder why you weren’t burned as a witch,” Farfarello suddenly breathed against his ear. Schuldig flinched out of surprise; he turned his head and blinked at the Felidae’s sudden appearance behind him. He had neither seen nor heard him move. “With that hair of yours, all fire and gold...”

 

He opened his mouth but all thought fled him as Farfarello buried his hands in his hair and let the fiery strands slip through his fingers. The touch was so gentle, so different from the cruel fingers that had left his back hurting, that Schuldig dissolved into a willing mass of aroused Vampire as Farfarello began to massage his scalp and then moved onto his neck and shoulders. The touch became firmer now, testing and questing along the muscles of his back, thankfully avoiding the hurt areas.

 

“Ouch!”

 

That stab of pain had come unexpected. Turning his head once more, Schuldig winced at the quite long and bloody splinter between Farfarello’s fingers. A fresh trickle of blood oozed down his back. It tickled horribly as it reached the sensitive skin above his waistband, but once more Schuldig dissolved into a heap as the tip of Farfarello’s tongue caught the drop and followed its track back upward to his shoulder blade, where it had originated. He did not have to be told to lie down and stretched out blissfully, thinking: way too trustingly. Yet the warning whisper had receded from the back of his mind, making way for the endless stretch of another eternity as the Felidae carefully plucked all the remaining splinters from his back, each tiny wound receiving an equal treatment of tongue and soft lips.

 

He knew he could fall asleep like this, and it did not matter anymore than just minutes ago he would have bet a lot on the chance that Farfarello might indeed try to kill him.

 

“Kill you? Scare you a little...”

 

Even his annoyance could not rear its entire head anymore. Stretching under Farfarello’s lips and tongue, Schuldig finally rolled onto his back, convinced that the blood was gone and the wounds closing. Farfarello sat by his side, thoughtfully looking at his chest. Smirking, Schuldig asked, “See something you like?”

 

“You are conceited.”

 

“And I’ve had several hundred years to feed my ego with stares like yours.”

 

This seemed to pique Farfarello’s curiosity. “How old are you anyway?”

 

“Not as old as you, I would guess. Around seven centuries, give and take a few.”

 

“’Give and take a few’?” The Felidae shook his head, making an expression that Schuldig could not really fathom. “You don’t even know how old you are?”

 

“What does it matter?” He felt annoyed by the paternal quality of the question – he knew for a fact that Farfarello _had_ to be older than him by at least two or three centuries, but counting the years had never interested him – and drew him into his arms perhaps a little rougher than he had intended. Yet Farfarello did not seem to mind. He stretched out along Schuldig’s side, his head cushioned on the Vampire’s chest, and began to draw lazy circles on Schuldig’s stomach. This time, the silence was comfortable.

 

Then Farfarello’s hands strayed from his stomach onto his groin and drew circles there, as though he wanted to remind Schuldig that they had come to the bed for a reason. Arching his back as Farfarello pushed his hand beneath the waistband of his pants and grasped his hardening length in a snug grip, Schuldig dimly heard a button pop, heard the small ivory disk hit the ground, heard his own breathless moan of approval as the Felidae sat up and took care of the other buttons to lay him bare. He _wanted_ to participate, _wanted_ to give the pleasure he was given back tenfold, and failed entirely as Farfarello shifted on the bed to take the head of his cock between his lips.

 

He pushed up, arching his back further, to the point where his spine began to ache. He wanted into that velvet heat that circled the very tip of his erection and threatened to suck all rational thought from his mind. He stared at the ceiling and did not see it, pushing up and whimpering shamelessly as Farfarello drew back, still holding him tightly. One of the Felidae’s thumbs rubbed maddeningly slow up and down the large vein on the underside of his cock, creating a spider web of tingly nerves that connected everything in his groin area to his nipples.

 

There had to be a point where the strength left him; surprisingly, it came as Farfarello took him into his mouth again. Schuldig plunged back down onto the bed, weightless, powerless, stars exploding behind his eyes. Sex was something a Vampire did not _do_ all that often unless they had a steady partner.

 

Sex with a Felidae was definitely something no Vampire ever did on a regular basis. Farfarello’s throat opened, letting him slide in deeply, slickly, tightly, and Schuldig knew why.

 

There was no way he would survive this. There was no way he would have any kind of rational thought left after this. He felt Farfarello’s sharp canine teeth scrape against the sensitive, thin skin of his cock somewhere between then and blissful death and heard himself shout, though there was no telling if it was from fear or arousal. Schuldig simply did not care anymore.

 

Farfarello’s fingers slipped between his legs and rubbed against the stretch of skin behind his balls and Schuldig came. He had no other choice. The roof of the four-poster-bed swam in and out of focus as he stared at it, fighting to win his breath back from where Farfarello had sucked it out of him.

 

“You make the nicest sounds when you come...” Smirking, Farfarello stretched out along his side once more, resting his weight on his elbow. He kept fondling Schuldig, apparently delighting in the twitches and jerks it earned him as the Vampire started to teeter on the thin line between ‘too good’ and ‘too much’. “Though I’d propose you not make them in public.”

 

If Schuldig had had the breath to cuss him out, he would have done it. As it was, he kept twitching, finally reaching down and forcibly removing Farfarello’s idly moving hand, and gave a sight of relief.

 

Farfarello leaned over and whispered into his ear, “Just think what the rest will be like if this already tired you out...”

 

The rest? Schuldig closed his eyes. After fearing for his life, being thrown across the room twice, having his heart nearly sucked out of him and now having something else sucked out of him, he did not know if he had anything left for ‘the rest’. “You’re insatiable.”

 

“I haven’t even started yet.” Farfarello sat up, straddled Schuldig’s legs, and pulled his pants off along with his shoes, dropping them over the edge of the bed. “Or do you need some time to recover?”

 

Restlessness had taken a hold of the Felidae, making his movement and touches rougher, more demanding than before. Schuldig had a good idea of what was to come and hesitated. He wanted Farfarello, wanted him like had had not wanted anyone in a long time, but now that the edge had been taken off his arousal the warning voice in the back of his mind decided to make itself noticed again.

 

It was too fast. The transition from having Farfarello’s teeth at his throat to having his cock down Farfarello’s throat had been so breathtakingly fast that only now Schuldig realized what he was doing, where he was – and why he had come here. “Wait.”

 

Farfarello looked up, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

 

“We shouldn’t be doing this now.”

 

“Why not?”

 

He gave a pointed stare at the dead kitten and the destroyed furniture. “I came here for answers.”

 

“Ask later.”

 

“Farfarello, no.” Schuldig sat up and caught his hands, holding them pressed against the mattress between them. “I can’t loose track of more -”

 

“- important things? Very well.”

 

Schuldig sighed as Farfarello wound his hands out of his grip and shuffled back on the bed, his expression closed off, unreadable again. “This isn’t what I was going to say.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at his pants and shirt, scattered on the floor. His mood was thoroughly ruined now. “I don’t understand you. You were so angry just minutes ago and now you’re...”

 

“I repeat, you were not protesting.”

 

“Don’t be so flippant. I didn’t say I don’t _want_ you.” Irritated, Schuldig plucked at the sheet on the mattress, wishing there were covers. He felt too vulnerable without his clothes now that the erotic spell had been shattered, too open and too _bare_ to Farfarello. The Felidae crouched in the far corner of the bed, watching him calculatingly. “We should be talking about what happened.”

 

One muscular shoulder lifted in a shrug. “What is there to talk about? You have your answers. Yes, I did kill those Vampires in Ireland. Yes, I was cruel. Yes, I would do it again. Have I done it again? No. I have no reason to – yet.” Farfarello nodded at the corpse of the kitten. “The mother of this one is _angry_ , Schuldig. She demands vengeance and I will see to it. If there is one thing I have on my hands, then it’s time.”

 

Schuldig followed an intuition. “Anna didn’t seem all that angry to me when I met her at the Thames.”

 

“We mourn differently, I told you before. Dead is dead.” If he was surprised by Schuldig’s guessing at the mother of the kitten, Farfarello did not show it. He kept watching the Vampire with an intensity that was unnerving, moving restlessly like a cornered cat. It made Schuldig wonder if he had no interest in finding the murderer of the kitten as soon as possible – there was no question as to who it was. Now it was a matter of proving it before Farfarello did something rash, killed William, and provoked the ire of the others – or if he was simply trying to distract himself from the death by bedding him. “I’ve ordered the others to stay away from your kind. I told them I would deal with the matter and I will. What difference does it make if I kill him now, or tomorrow, or in a year? His time will come. That is all that matters.”

 

The nonchalance of Farfarello’s tone of voice alarmed the Vampire. “If you kill William you’ll have a problem. You have no real proof.” He moved over to him and took him by the shoulders, ignoring the way Farfarello’s muscles tensed under his hands. “I’m not saying the others will be after you, but they won’t look upon it kindly.”

 

Farfarello looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “Proof? Who made you detective in this? Who made you judge? What more proof do you need? Weren’t you looking for answers? They’re right before your eyes and you’re not seeing them!”

 

“I know, but -”

 

“But _what_?” Nonchalance was replaced by viciousness so quickly Schuldig again had to think of railroad signs and how he missed them completely when he was around Farfarello. He wanted to say something, wanted to somehow placate Farfarello – and for what? Farfarello was right. The proof was right before his eyes – but faltered in the face of the heated anger marring the Felidae’s features into a hateful mask. “But I should be merciful? Lenient? Let this beast keep killing our _children_ because he’s a _Vampire_? Because he _thinks_ that one of us killed this other one? Or wait until you and the others have made up your minds and slap him on the hand for what he did?”

 

“That’s not going to happen! We -” He started to scream and stopped himself, glowering at Farfarello through slit eyes. “This isn’t going anywhere.”

 

“Look at you being the voice of reason!” Farfarello spat.

 

“Well, it seems that you’re like William. You’re blaming him without having real proof, just as he blames your clan for Christine’s death.”

 

Farfarello lifted his chin and stared down his nose at Schuldig, once again calm and cold, “Just minutes ago you thought that it _was_ William. Are you having second thoughts?”

 

Sighing, Schuldig shook his head. He had no doubts about William’s part in the death of the kitten, but there was still one death - two - unaccounted for. Still no light had been shed on the case of the dead Felidae at the Thames and Christine’s death. “There’s something missing, don’t you see? William might have - all right, probably _has_ killed that kitten, but who killed Christine and the other one?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Swear it wasn’t you! Or any of your clan.”

 

Farfarello was visibly taken aback by the fervour in the Vampire’s voice, but he nodded and said, “I swear I did not kill Christine. If any of the others had killed her, I would know about it.”

 

“Swear you didn’t come here to settle an old score.”

 

“I swear.”

 

It would have to do. Schuldig knew he would never have real proof and that Farfarello’s word was all he had unless the unlikely happened and he found the real culprit. He ignored the challenging glare the Felidae gave him - Farfarello was a king, an Elder in his own right. Being asked to swear on something was not something that happened to him often, Schuldig guessed - and reached for his shirt, draping it over his lap. Some minor part of him mourned the loss of physical intimacy - the bed was now divided territory, with one half belonging to Farfarello and the other belonging to the Vampire and an invisible but tangible line dissecting the two halves - but the rest was strangely glad that they were back on track.

 

He had no idea what was going on in Farfarello’s head concerning that matter. That the leader of the Felidae quickly changed his opinion, his entire demeanour within a few seconds was nothing that surprised Schuldig anymore now. Yet there was no telling how he would react to being refused _after_ Schuldig had not even fought his advances.

 

And how quickly the tables had turned! Schuldig eyed Farfarello, wondering if he had only reacted favourably to his interest because he wanted to distract Schuldig from what was going on. He did not put it beyond him. Or was the interest real?

 

“Back on track. Right,” Farfarello said dryly, lifting an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should wait outside until you’ve sorted out what you’d rather think about - those deaths, or your carnal interests.”

 

“Excuse me for being a little overwhelmed by everything. A few hours ago you all but wanted to peel your skin off because I touched you.”

 

“Are we going to talk about death or sex now, Schuldig?” Farfarello sighed and shifted on the bed, crossing his legs beneath him. “Would it help you if I told you that the attraction is mutual?”

 

“Is it?”

 

“Don’t think me that shallow,” the Felidae said, a threatening note to his voice. “Don’t you ever think that I would stoop that low and spread my legs just so I’d get something out of it.”

 

It was aggravating to have one’s private thoughts picked from one’s mind without being able to defend against it unless one constantly thought of a steady image. Schuldig only nodded and thought of ice, walls of fire and impenetrable metal blockades, trying to uphold the mental shield and think behind it at the same time. It was something he would have to practise and advise Crawford on.

 

And he needed to learn to figure Farfarello out. The constant mind changes were not surprising Schuldig anymore but they threw him off-track, made him think about things that were not important. Forgetting everything about him was easy once he was focused on the Felidae; it was a mix of fascination and curiosity that made Farfarello an addictive object of interest. Schuldig knew himself well enough; he knew that he could easily dedicate a lot of time to things or persons he could not figure out all that easily. It was his cursed curiosity that made Crawford call him ‘detective’ and drove him to the house in Mayfair in the first place.

 

“All right,” he said after a while, leaning against a poster of the bed, “Let’s sum up the facts we know.”

 

“We know nothing,” Farfarello said matter-of-factly, “And talking endlessly about it isn’t going to help matters. I -” He halted, his eyes losing their focus for the briefest of moments. “Get dressed.”

 

“What? Why?” Flabbergasted, Schuldig watched him crawl off the bed. The sudden flurry of movement made him reach for his clothes on the floor without thinking about it. “What’s going on?”

 

“They’re calling me. Something happened.” Impatiently, Farfarello picked his tunica up from the floor and pulled it back on, giving Schuldig a stare the Vampire could only interpret as haunted. “Someone died.”

 

\---

 

He wondered about two things as he followed Farfarello through Mayfair’s dark, silent streets, the cold night air biting at his skin. It was way past midnight and the air smelled of soil and rain, making the scenery all the more eerie as they hurried along. Farfarello had not said a word since they left the house but Schuldig knew he was communicating with his kin; he saw it in the way Farfarello’s head dipped once in a while as though he was nodding at someone, could read it in the tenseness of his shoulders when they stopped at street corners where the Felidae waited as though he was told which direction to go now.

 

He wondered what the other Felidae would think when their leader, their _king_ suddenly appeared with a Vampire in his company. Would that not certainly break some rules? Would it not start the gossip, if it had not already? After all, Farfarello had sent his guards away, and since Anna had known about Schuldig’s inclinations it would not surprise the Vampire if the entire clan knew as well. Just how absolute was Farfarello’s reign? Could he be challenged if someone questioned his leadership, or was it something passed down through the generations as the mortals did it? Who would be so foolish to challenge him who could burn anyone posing a threat to him?

 

What weighted far more heavily on his mind was what Farfarello had said. Someone had died. Who? When he really thought about it, he already knew the answer; Schuldig had had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since they left the house and the iron silence Farfarello surrounded himself with now only ascertained what the Vampire thought he knew already.

 

It had been inevitable. It confirmed something else Farfarello had told him - that there was nothing to talk about - and something Schuldig had known since before he set foot in the house for the second time. Had known since he listened to Theodore at the “Raven” and since he touched the soft fur of the dead kitten.

 

What followed now had been started with Christine’s and that Felidae’s death and set gears into motion he was not sure could be stopped.

 

He should have been angry - at Farfarello, at himself, at whoever was responsible for it all - but Schuldig felt almost nothing as he followed the leader of the Felidae into a private park at Mayfair’s west end and stood over the corpse of William Darcey. Inevitability.

 

He wondered how he could have been so stupid.

 

There were about twenty Felidae, standing in a loose circle around the corpse. Schuldig paid them no attention as he knelt at William’s side to take a closer look at the wounds; he heard Farfarello whisper something but paid no attention. He looked at the gaping hole where William’s throat used to be and saw the white of bone through the red of carnage; it had been a single bite, then. Perhaps not a clean kill but certainly a quick death. Schuldig’s gaze wandered away from the corpse to look at the wet grass around them, the darkness making it impossible to determine if William lay in the spot where he had been killed, or if he had crawled a few feet before he bled to death.

 

He saw the second circle of Felidae, then, standing a bit away under the gnarled branches of an oak tree. They made way for him as he walked over and let him see the second corpse.

 

“Revenge,” one of the Felidae said softly as Schuldig took in Anna’s bloodied mouth and the unnatural twist of her neck. He could guess at what had happened. Anna must have tracked William down after she left Schuldig at the house. They had fought, and the Felidae had managed to rip the Vampire’s throat out before he broke her neck and did whatever damage Schuldig could not see in the dark.

 

No, he had never had the chance to stop the gears. The Age of Enlightenment might have brought light into the Dark Ages, but the Dark Breeds strongly believed in fairness; an eye for an eye, a life for a life were simple rules everyone knew and no one wanted to give up. They made everything so easy. Anna’s eyes were open, the blank gaze staring forever into whatever realm she was following her young one now.

 

The female and male Schuldig had first seen in Anna’s company stepped up to him and started to spread a blanket on the ground next to the corpse. They did not look at him as they lifted Anna onto the blanket and bundled her up; Schuldig looked at the faces of the others and saw mostly apathy, as though they had known the outcome as well as he had and now, faced with its result, felt the same emptiness he did.

 

He turned again and saw Farfarello bend over William, studying the dead Vampire from up close. A tiny flame of anger sprang to life within Schuldig as Farfarello hooked the tip of his boot under William’s side and shoved him over onto his stomach as though he could not bear to look at his face, but even that anger was hard to hold on to. The curiosity that had driven him so far was gone now, replaced with the burning need to go home and sleep, to either forget everything or think about it for so long until all was squared away. There still were questions he wanted answers to, but they did not seem important now.

 

Farfarello looked up at him as he approached and did not react as Schuldig said, “Now we are even.” A few muted whispers from the Felidae around them were all he got as answer to his statement. It was just as well. William had been a fellow Vampire, William had lived in London for years, but Schuldig felt strangely detached from everything as he nodded at the corpse and asked, “You took care of Christine. Will you take care of him too?”

 

Farfarello looked at the corpse and seemed to want to say something, but in the end he nodded wordlessly and rose, turning to his kin. Whatever orders he gave them, Schuldig did not hear them, and he did not really care. He watched two males lift William’s corpse onto another blanket and carry him away, disappearing beneath the trees. Farfarello did not seem to need to question if Schuldig wanted the bones. Anna’s corpse followed shortly behind William’s; one after the other, the Felidae left the park, disappearing out of sight. When only he and Farfarello were left, Schuldig turned to him and measured him with a cool glance. “You lied.”

 

Wordlessly, Farfarello shook his head.

 

Schuldig continued, “You have what you wanted. Christine and William are dead. You got the two Vampires who managed to get away from you back then, though I admit I must wonder why you waited that long.”

 

Again he received a shake of the head.

 

“You might as well admit it, Farfarello. I’m not angry.”

 

“Why would I fear your anger?” Dispassionately, Farfarello turned, only his clenched fists giving him away. Schuldig watched him until he had nearly disappeared out of view as well before he sighed and followed him, falling into a light jog to catch up.

 

“William is _dead_ , Farfarello. Why don’t you admit it?”

 

“Because I have nothing to admit,” the leader of the Felidae told him in clipped words.

 

He lengthened his steps, hissing something as they stepped back onto the street. Schuldig saw two Felidae linger at the corner of the park, watching them; they turned away and vanished. Guards? He doubted it. More likely they were curious. He watched Farfarello stare after them and took him by the shoulder to turn him around.

 

“Farfarello, admit it now and I’ll make sure no one will come after your kind. It was an old score. It’s settled now. It is _just_.”

 

“Nothing is settled.” Farfarello wrenched away from him, eyes ablaze. “Nothing is just!”

 

The last word bounced off the walls of the houses around them, echoing down the empty streets. Schuldig blinked and wondered where the anger came from, shaking his head at the Felidae. How could Farfarello still deny it? Christine and William were both dead; Schuldig was now convinced that he had misinterpreted the leader of the Felidae entirely and that in itself should have made him angry, but all he felt was the same apathy that had hung over the assembled Felidae just moments ago. Perhaps he would have felt something else than _inevitability_ had he not known about Farfarello’s past. Yet he knew. He knew, and it made sense that it should happen this way. It was all so anti-climatic but Schuldig was not left with any doubt that everything that had happened had been planned. “What do you mean?”

 

“It means nothing is done.”

 

“You speak in riddles.” The Vampire sighed. “I understand now, how it worked. William must indeed have been stupid to fall for the same trick twice.”

 

“You understand nothing,” Farfarello said acidly, turning away once more.

 

Schuldig was too tired to argue and let him go. He doubted he could have stopped him even if he tried. There were no questions left to ask, not really. If Farfarello had not killed Christine then it had been one of the others and their leader was covering it up, which was only natural.

 

_What more proof do you need? Weren’t you looking for answers? They’re right before your eyes and you’re not seeing them!_

 

No, Schuldig thought as he turned the other way and started the long way home, I see them now. You were the answer all along.

 

*********

**Chapter Three**

*********

 

Still...

 

Still, the apathy that had befallen him that night in the park left Schuldig a week after he returned to Shaftesbury Avenue, ignored Crawford’s questions and went straight to bed. He answered to his companion the following night as they ventured into Covent Garden, determined to forget about everything as quickly as possible, and found that Crawford had quite adequate words for the entire situation:

 

“That’s a farce. Though I’m not sure what’s more pathetic - that Farfarello pulled the same trick twice, that everyone made such a fuss about it or that William actually fell for it. I predict this will cause much merriment among the others, despite the deaths and all.”

 

‘That William actually fell for it’ struck a chord in Schuldig and started to echo inside him like a melody one just cannot get rid of. Yet just as he had been able to ignore the warning voice in his mind when he met Farfarello, Schuldig easily ignored that melody and sought to forget about the entire affair as quickly as possible. He idly wondered why he had been so adamant about coming to the grounds of it all in the first place - of course, Christine had been a friend of his, and a close friend at that. Just like any other member of the Dark Breeds, though, she fell under the same rules. Now that the mystery of her murder had been solved - and what an easy solution it had, indeed, been. How could he have missed it? - and Schuldig knew who the culprits were, it all made sense.

 

His curiosity had involved him more deeply into the affairs of the Felidae than was wise. Schuldig knew the rules. Part of him was able to accept Christine’s death now because he knew that she had paid for something that occurred centuries ago - the Dark Breeds made no difference between a year and millennia. It still eluded him why Farfarello had chosen this very century for his revenge, but his curiosity was not piqued enough to make him seek out the leader of the Felidae and ask him about it.

 

They saw neither hair nor hide of any of the Felidae for days that turned into a week. Schuldig visited Theodore at the “Raven” and told him what had happened. He sat with him in the backroom of the shop, amid parchment and framed copies of Theodore’s work, bottles of ink and writing utensils, and found the company of the other Vampire soothing. Theodore might not have been present back then in Ireland, but of all the London Vampires he was the only one who was interested in all the details. Even Crawford seemed to have lost interest once he understood how it was all linked together, and the others were more concerned with their own safety. Yet the Felidae had made themselves so scarce that after a few days of worrying and heated discussions how they should proceed the London Vampires decided that the score had been settled and that there was nothing left to worry about.

 

“We really are a lazy bunch of monsters,” Schuldig said to Theodore that night, thumbing through a sheaf of papers. One of the writers he translated for had sent him a copy of their newest book. The topic - “Revolutionary Theories in Women’s Rights” - did not interest him all that much but at least it was something to occupy himself with. “Everyone was so wrought up about Christine’s death, but now that they know what brought it on they don’t care anymore.”

 

“Did you expect them to?” Theodore stood in a corner of the backroom, sorting through a stack of parchment. “We live in a hard world, Schuldig. The mortals might have their laws and their judges now, they believe in righting wrongs by giving the murderers and thieves into the hands of the ‘correctional institutes’, but we live by far older rules. They are much simpler. Now that Farfarello has taken his revenge, late as it may have happened, the score is settled, no matter how unfair it might all seem to you.”

 

“And there’s nothing left to worry about,” Schuldig ended with a sigh. “And a few centuries later, the heroic Felidae managed to find the last two murderers and killed them. Everyone lived happily ever after. The end.”

 

Theodore chuckled, “Why so sarcastic? Didn’t you want to know what happened to Christine? Now you know.”

 

Every Dark Breed had a past. Due to their immortality, the very span of their life, things accumulated or disappeared down memory lane. It had not shocked Schuldig to learn about Christine’s past. Her death had shocked him because it came unexpected and ripped a bleeding hole into the deceptive tranquillity of his endless life. He knew that now. He knew that it was not so much her death that had awakened the fever in him, but the feeling that his life had been unjustly interrupted. Yet the answer to all his questions had been so _easily_ found...

 

Not found, Schuldig corrected himself, eyes gliding over a page of the book in his hands, _uncovered_. Crawford called him detective, yet what had he done to come to the grounds of Christine’s murder? Nothing. He had stood at the sidelines and watched events unfold, nothing more than a spectator who in the end gained access to the finer points of the script and understood its spidery-thin threads connecting one character to the other.

 

He realized what he was doing and sighed again. Looking up he caught Theodore giving him a wistful, knowing glance. “Something’s still off about it, Theo.”

 

The other Vampire put the parchment down and joined him at the cluttered desk, pulling a chair out. “Too easy for your tastes, hm?”

 

Schuldig shook his head, searching for the right words. It was nothing concrete, just a feeling, but it would not go away. For a week now he had tried to forget about everything, to resume life as it was normal where he had left off, but no matter how hard he tried his thoughts always returned to Christine - and to Farfarello. He felt as though he had taken the first tentative steps down a road of which he knew nothing but that it ended in darkness. “He said that nothing’s done. Nothing’s settled. I wonder what he meant.”

 

“What who meant?”

 

“I have to go, Theo.” He had to talk to Farfarello again. Schuldig knew he would not be able to let it rest until he knew the entire truth. He put the stack of paper on the edge of the desk and slipped into his coat, determined to go to Mayfair and find Farfarello.

 

“Schuldig, where are you going at this time of the night? It’s nearly light out.” Concern in his voice, Theodore followed him to the door. “Let it rest. You have your answers.”

 

“It’s not like the light will kill me. I have answers, but not to the questions that I should have asked.” Letting himself out of the shop, Schuldig hunched his shoulders against the icy wind that greeted him on the sidewalk. For days now, the newspapers had been reporting the first casualties - the homeless and the weak would fall victim to the coming harsh winter. “And there’s something else that needs to be settled still.”

 

“Schuldig...”

 

He turned and smiled at Theodore, “Don’t worry, nothing that would result in bloodshed. I hope. It’s a personal affair.”

 

“You are far too fascinated by him, you know that?”

 

There was something in Theodore’s eyes that made him hesitate, aside from the feeling of deja vue he was experiencing. Crawford had said almost the exact same words to him the last time they walked out of the “Raven” and Schuldig went to Mayfair. Though Schuldig knew that his companion would never intentionally say anything about his personal affairs to any of the others, he suddenly wondered how much of his ‘fascination’ was evident if Theodore now said the same to him. He had spent a lot of time in the company of the others lately but had made sure to not give too much of his personal interest in Farfarello away. They would not _do_ anything about it - Schuldig was an Elder of London, a title no one had ever dared to try to take away from him - but the revelation that he had partaken in intimate activities with the leader of the Felidae would cause quite a stir.

 

What he read in Theodore’s eyes was misgiving. Hands buried in his pockets, Schuldig turned down the sidewalk. “I’ll be back tomorrow for those papers.”

 

“Be careful. He’s still a Felidae, Schu.”

 

Those words made him look back over his shoulder but Theodore had already closed the door to the “Raven” and placed the wooden board before it. The concern in his voice had been real - Schuldig had spent enough time in Theodore’s company to know the subtle inflections and tell them apart - but he could not get rid of the misgiving, almost stern expression on his face just moments ago. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, though. Christine’s death had shaken the London Vampires from their feeling of safety and sacrosanct belief that nothing could hurt them. Theodore’s misgiving could be justified - after all, it had been Farfarello to whom they could accredit that death.

 

Could they?

 

The more he thought about it, the more Schuldig knew that there was still something missing in the puzzle. Maybe not an important part, but it was something he needed to know or he would probably think about it for the rest of his eternity.

 

Maybe he just wanted to see Farfarello again.

 

He went straight to Mayfair and reached the house when the light of the new morning began to turn black into murky grey hung with thick, menacing clouds. There had been sleet and ice mixed in with the recent downpours that did nothing to wash the dirt of London’s seedier houses but everything to make walking through the muddy streets an adventure. It was the time of the year when hunting more often than not meant choosing a brothel or a pub and look for someone suitable there; when winter came with its tight grip of biting cold and snow, finding a mortal to feed on could be a real adventure.

 

It was amusing to contemplate that the Felidae must have it easier when it came to feeding no matter what season it was; they could always slip into their feline form and follow and unsuspecting mortal home. No matter how rotten life for the mortals might be, Schuldig knew from observation that they would rather starve to death themselves than let a pet die of hunger or neglect. Then he thought about a dirty, thin child, rubbing its grubby fingers through the soft fur of a cat only to shriek in terror when the cat suddenly turned into a man, or a woman, hungry eyes and hungry claws, and did not find it all that amusing anymore.

 

Out of what was now habit, Schuldig scanned the edges of the rooftops as he neared the house. Here and there, he saw the dark shape of a Felidae, sitting still as statues next to smoking chimneys. They ignored him or they sent to Farfarello that he was on his way; the closer he came to the house the more Schuldig picked up on the excitement that hung in the air and thickened to an almost suffocating cloud as he stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. A rugged-looking male opened and stepped into his way without a word, eyeing him suspiciously.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Is Farfarello here?” The unfriendly welcome did not sit well with Schuldig. He squared his shoulders, staring up at the man. It had to be one of Farfarello’s guards; the man looked to be well into his forties and was nearly an entire head taller than the Vampire, with large hands and a square, scarred chin. “I’d like to talk to him.”

 

“He has no time for that now.” The man kept watching his every move as though he was expecting an attack and went on, “Maybe later when the challenge is over.” A dry, humourless chuckle accompanied his words. “If he’s still alive by then, I mean.”

 

Schuldig blinked. He took the final step and stood on the threshold, nose to throat with the man. “What’s that supposed to mean? What challenge? Where is he?”

 

The guard looked back over his shoulder. A young woman in a long, shapeless dress appeared behind him and looked at Schuldig through narrowed eyes. “Let him in. He’s been here before.”

 

“I know, but -”

 

“Let him see it if he’s so keen on it.” The viciousness in her voice was hard to miss. She turned away and disappeared again, leaving the man to regard Schuldig with undisguised suspicion once more. Now that an invitation had been more or less extended, the Vampire wasted no more time and pushed past the guard, stopping once he was inside the house. On the stairs up to the first floor sat a huge group of cats, watching him with wide open eyes. They were of all shapes and colours, young and adult mixed together.

 

The charged atmosphere affected Schuldig and made him nervous. Something was going on - a challenge, that much he knew by now - and it seemed to be of tremendous importance. There were excited voices and harsh sounds, but they did not come from the first floor. Nor did they come from the ground floor.

 

“They’re down there,” The guard appeared at Schuldig’s side and pointed at a door to the left of the staircase. “Go on down if you want, but I wouldn’t interrupt them if I were you.”

 

As he opened the door, Schuldig could clearly hear the unmistakable sounds of a fight. What caused him to reel and reach for the edge of the door, though, was the scent of freshly spilled blood that greeted him. He stood at the head of a staircase leading down into the cellar of the house. There was no light on the stairs but he saw the unruly shine of fire further down at the foot. As he descended, he could make out single words in what seemed to be a choir, a chanting of human-sounding and feline voices. English and other languages mixed together into a disturbing, hair-rising wall of sound.

 

The stairs ended at a narrow doorway that opened into a large, dank cellar. The ceiling was low enough that Schuldig could have touched it easily if he extended his arm. He walked into the cellar and nearly stumbled over a group of cats sitting close to the entrance. They ignored him, their maws open to make sounds no cat should have been able to make, and kept their backs turned to him to watch the breathtaking scene acted out before them. Before Schuldig’s eyes stopped at Farfarello’s bloody body, he noticed a handful of Felidae in their human form, crouching at the far wall and to the sides. All in all, it must have been over a hundred of them squeezed into the cellar, forming a tight circle around the two men in their midst. Together with the catkin sitting on the stairs and the ones that had to be scattered all over the house, it was easy to believe that nearly the entire clan was assembled. He made that observation on the side, eyes locking on what was going on before him.

 

The ferocity of the fight between Farfarello and another male was as breathtaking as it was terrible. Schuldig noticed a presence at his back but could not turn away from the fight, transfixed by the sheer brutality of the scene.

 

“He was challenged for leadership,” a voice announced close to his ear. “This fight decides if Farfarello will still be our leader when the sun rises.”

 

Both fighters were stripped to the waist, their feet bare. They had no weapons, but Schuldig had firsthand experience in what a Felidae could do with their fingernails; both Farfarello and the other male were bleeding from deep scratches all over their bodies. Their movement was too fast for even Schuldig to see any details, but he saw the small puddles of blood on the floor where their feet had not stepped into them and turned the steps of this macabre dance into bloody footprints marking a slow and brutal way to death.

 

 _When the sun rises..._ Did that mean the fight would go on until the sun rose? Until one of them died or gave up? If so, what would happen to the loser? He tore his eyes away from the fight for a moment and watched the fervent excitement on the faces of the Felidae who were in their human form; they shouted and waved their arms, cheering for whoever they had chosen as their champion. He did not put it beyond them to tear into who would be the loser, the intensity of their screams and shouts making his skin crawl. He had to think of Romans sitting in the Coliseum, untouched by the brutality before their eyes, cheering for death and destruction to have something to distract themselves from their own personal hells.

 

Farfarello seemed to pick up his pace, his motions becoming faster and faster while his opponent showed the first signs of fatigue. Both of them were bleeding heavily now, bite wounds and scratch marks all over them, but the amber-eyed Felidae seemed to have reserves of strength his challenger lacked. Schuldig’s breath caught as he saw the expression on Farfarello’s sweaty face - the smile stretching bloodied lips was so out of place that the Vampire had to forcibly remind himself that this was the same Felidae he knew and not some demon that had crawled out of hell. He seemed to _enjoy_ the fight.

 

The chanting rose in intensity and volume until it was all Schuldig could hear. His ears rang with a hundred voices, all of them screaming for a decision, an end of the challenge. Farfarello twisted away from his opponent’s grasping hands and turned, swinging his foot up. He caught the other male in the side of the throat and caused him to stumble sideways and fall to one knee; what happened then was gruesome enough to almost make Schuldig close his eyes as he saw it come. Grasping the other Felidae’s head in both hands, Farfarello twisted it around and broke his challenger’s neck, wrenching a throaty howl from him that ended abruptly. Then Farfarello bent down over his exposed throat and bit into it, shaking his head - the silence that had suddenly fallen over the assembled Felidae became all the more profound as the Vampire could hear skin tear, the crunch of cartilage, the liquid spurt of blood.

 

Farfarello’s challenger fell, a gaping hole in his throat. Light blood cascaded from severed arteries, and to his surprise Schuldig heard, through the leaden stillness, the last dying breaths whisper out of that gaping wound.

 

A light touch on his shoulder brought him back around. The woman who had spoken to the guard stood behind him, though nothing was left now of the viciousness she had shown before. The smile on her face was triumphant. “Long live the king,” she whispered, her words echoed by other Felidae in the cellar. Schuldig turned around once more and watched Farfarello turn from his fallen challenger, chest, shoulders and stomach smeared with his own and the other Felidae’s blood. His chest was heaving, but the expression on his face spoke of pride and victory. The psychotic smile on his lips faltered for a second as he saw Schuldig, but he turned his back to the Vampire as the circle of Felidae broke apart and those in their human form stepped up to their old new leader.

 

Schuldig was not sure he understood. The joy on those Felidae’s faces seemed to be real enough considering they had cheered for the dead challenger. Would it not be wiser to eliminate those who had sought to oppose their king simply by cheering for the other one? Would a new challenge not be bread right among those who now stood around Farfarello, touching his shoulders, his hair, his chest?

 

Why were they touching him at all? He watched the submissive smiles on their faces, the way their hands touched Farfarello as though they were trying to apologize for cheering for the dead one, and felt a streak of anger and jealousy wash through him. He had no rights to lay any claims on the leader of the catkin, but he had seen those others scream and chant and knew they would be doing the same now if Farfarello lay on the ground there and his opponent had won. This was the first time that Schuldig had been close to something that seemed tradition among this particular Dark Breed, and he disliked it immensely.

 

Schuldig ignored the angry yowl of the Felidae before him as he stepped over their heads and pushed some of them aside. Farfarello turned around just as he reached the group of human Felidae and narrowed his eyes at him, brushing the hands of the others off. They did not seem to be fond of the interruption, staring at Schuldig with undisguised anger. He saw the male and the female who had been in Anna’s company and held their stares easily. “We need to talk.”

 

Farfarello did not answer. He was still breathing hard, the line of his shoulders trembling, sweat running down his face and chest. Holding Schuldig’s eyes for a long moment, he inclined his head. “Leave the house. The challenge is done.”

 

The order was meant for the others. Schuldig caught a few sneers directed at him as the human Felidae walked past him and left the cellar; he had not made friends by appearing like this. Shielding his thoughts - something he had practised over the last few days - he thought that did not want them as friends, anyway.

 

With friends like these, no one needed enemies.

 

\---

 

“You’re wondering about our customs,” Farfarello said lightly as he walked up the stairs before Schuldig, leaving bloody footprints on the marble. Walking a few steps behind him, Schuldig watched the muscles in the Felidae’s back as he moved, tracing the countless scratches and bruises on the fair skin. He fixed his eyes on the back of Farfarello’s head and sighed at the words, trailing his hand along the banister. “You’re wondering why I didn’t kill those who opposed me.”

 

“Yes.” Farfarello must have listened to his thoughts while the Vampire had been too captured by the fight to think about shielding them. “But I didn’t come here to discuss what must be holy traditions among the Felidae.”

 

Farfarello’s light chuckle was tinged with fatigue, belying the apparent carelessness towards his wounds. Perhaps, as king, he was not allowed to show weakness in front of the clan. The more he thought about it, the more Schuldig thought that of all Dark Breeds, the Felidae seemed to be the most arcane. Even the Wer had better rules to their societies.

 

“So why did you come here?” Farfarello turned at the head of the stairs and blocked Schuldig’s path, grinning sardonically. “Missed me?”

 

There were deep scratches along Farfarello’s chest, marring the sleek lines of muscle. The blood on his skin was beginning to dry and flake off, making him look as though he had rolled around in a mud pool and then come inside to the warmth of a fire. Hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead, the right side of his face marred by a darkening bruise, there was nothing even remotely attractive about him at the moment.

 

Yet Schuldig found him irresistible. It seemed to be his fate to fall for someone he was not supposed to even talk to under normal circumstances, much less desire. Someone whose motives were as elusive as his past; though the Vampire thought he knew the past that haunted Farfarello to this very day and age, he had no idea why the Felidae did not seem to be willing to escape it. His very presence in London made Farfarello someone whose grudges could indeed survive the centuries. It did not make him someone Schuldig felt he could ever trust.

 

It made him someone Schuldig could spend centuries trying to understand.

 

Standing at the head of the stairs still, Farfarello inclined his head as though he was trying to listen to Schuldig’s thoughts. The expression on his face was wistful as he reached up and rubbed a hand over his brow, smearing sweat and blood across his skin. His hand dropped to the banister, fingers clenching around the wood. His lips moved around words that never reached Schuldig’s ears; with a small sigh, Farfarello sat down on the top stair and wrapped his arms around his knees. “It is not easy.”

 

“What isn’t easy?” The sudden change in behaviour left Schuldig swimming. He stayed where he was, watching Farfarello who seemed nothing more than a tired, young man now, a mortal. A very _bloody_ mortal with amber eyes and red hair.

 

“This, you...everything.”

 

“And I have it easier? It took me three days to get over the fact that you _played_ with me.”

 

“Played?” Farfarello looked up at him and frowned.

 

“You don’t really expect me to believe that what happened in that ‘throne room’ of yours was nothing but a distraction to keep me from asking too many questions.” Schuldig held up his hand as Farfarello opened his mouth and went on, “Don’t tell me now it wasn’t.”

 

“It wasn’t. Why are you here, Schuldig? If I just played with you, why are you here?” Farfarello sounded tired and did not bother to hide it. “What makes you think you’re the only one who’s...interested? You’re not the only trespasser here. Some of my guards have made bets when you’d next appear.”

 

The admission softened his heart although his mind did not want to believe it. His _ego_ did not want to believe it. Schuldig wanted something more. “Even if you are...it was a convenient intermezzo, wasn’t it? You and I cooped up in there, while Anna kills William outside...” He trailed off, giving the Felidae an expecting glance.

 

“It was convenient, you are right, but it wasn’t planned. I knew Anna was going to seek revenge - and why should she not? It was her child that died. There’s nothing worse than a mother’s rage. But perhaps you know nothing of that because your kind doesn’t breed. William had been scouring the streets of Mayfair for _days_. It was only a matter of time, and I told you _that_ before.” Farfarello sighed once more, heavily, and rested his head on his arms. His voice was muffled as he went on, “Look, can we talk about this some other time? I’ve just fought for both my post and my life, and I’m not in the best shape right now.”

 

“What would you have me do?”

 

Farfarello looked up and extended a hand. He did not speak until the Vampire walked up the remaining stairs that separated them and then reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. He pulled himself back up to his feet, pressing against Schuldig, mindless of the sweat and blood he left all over the Vampire’s clothes. Burying his face in the crook of Schuldig’s shoulder, Farfarello wrapped his other arm around his waist and pulled him closer as though he wanted their bodies to fuse.

 

He never said what he wanted Schuldig to do but he did not protest either as Schuldig began to gently push him backward, slowly manoeuvring them toward the room at the end of the corridor. Apparently unwilling to let go of him even as they moved through the door into the chaos of furniture, glass and blankets, Farfarello pulled Schuldig down on top of him as he felt the edge of the bed at his knees, wrapping himself so completely around the Vampire that Schuldig thought chains could not have done a better job of keeping him in place. It took a few minutes of moving and rearranging limbs until they found a position that was comfortable for them both. Schuldig mourned the lack of pillows and blankets but having Farfarello’s back pressed against his chest made up for that. He buried his nose in the hair at the nape of the Felidae’s neck, ignoring the sharp scent of sweat and all the more distinct smell of blood. Then he laid his cheek against the side of Farfarello’s head and watched their entangled fingers, lying against Farfarello’s stomach, rise and fall with the Felidae’s breaths.

 

“You’re going to stick to my clothes,” Schuldig said after a while. He rubbed his lips over a long, shallow cut on Farfarello’s shoulder, the tip of his tongue sneaking out to taste the blood. He remembered the tongue bath Farfarello had given him last time and decided to pay him back now. Their position did not allow him much reach, but the Felidae stretched and rubbed back against him as Schuldig carefully cleaned all those cut he had access to. “You should take a bath or at least wash. Come night, you’ll rip those cuts open all over again.”

 

“So tear me open, pour me out...”[1]

 

He had to snicker at the decidedly morbid tone of voice, but the thought of having to forcibly remove Farfarello from his clothes when they got back up persisted. Untangling himself proved hard work as the Felidae did not seem to be willing to let go. When Schuldig finally crawled off the bed, Farfarello sat up as well and glowered at him, “If you don’t come back here this very second I’ll pounce.”

 

“I’ll come back with a wash cloth and then you can pounce.” Turning to find his way back to the door, Schuldig listened for sounds and looked back over his shoulder to see Farfarello still sitting on the bed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. The Felidae looked dead tired. “How long did that fight last, anyway?”

 

“Six hours or so. I didn’t really pay attention to the time.”

 

Six _hours_? Schuldig blinked and stared, trying to comprehend. “You fought one guy for _six_ hours?”

 

“Not one guy. Eight. Three sisters, five brothers.”

 

The nonchalance with which Farfarello stated the figure seemed a complete oxymoron to what it implied - and explained why the catkin seemed ready to drop off to sleep any moment now. Standing at the door, Schuldig slowly shook his head. “I guess you can call yourself lucky that they didn’t all attack you at the same time, hm?”

 

“That would be against the rules. One at a time,” Farfarello said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had worse fights. I’ve been the leader of this clan for a very long time.”

 

And undoubtedly he had paid for this post with a lot of blood, not to mention the number of deaths he must have caused even among his own kind. Schuldig again contemplated the rules that dictated the lives of the Felidae and how little he approved of them. To be forced to accept a challenge from his own brothers and sisters and fight them to the death was not something Schuldig thought he would be able to accomplish unless it directly threatened his life.

 

“How can you live like this?” Schuldig asked, aware that he was questioning, if not insulting, everything Farfarello lived for. “How can you stand being what you are?”

 

“I know nothing else. I’ve lived like this all my life.” The Felidae seemed too tired to even take offence and kept rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Bathroom’s at the other end of the corridor.”

 

When Schuldig returned with a wet wash cloth, Farfarello lay rolled together at the very edge of the bed, fast asleep. He stirred as the Vampire settled down next to him, brows drawing together at the touch of the wet cloth on his skin, but his eyes did not open even as Schuldig cleaned the blood off as best as he could. The light of the new day began to stream in through the windows when he was done, shadows cast by the furniture stretching to reach the bed. Schuldig dropped the bloodied cloth onto the floor and stretched out behind Farfarello, wrapping an arm around him once more.

 

He could not sleep although he tried. Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed, maybe it was the reversal of roles. Schuldig idly contemplated how Farfarello had watched over his sleep once and that he was now doing he very same. That Farfarello trusted him so easily at his back amazed the Vampire.

 

“I’ll never figure you out,” Schuldig said into the hair at the back of Farfarello’s head, nearly expecting him to wake up and answer. Yet the Felidae slept on, undisturbed, the deep sleep of exhaustion. “I’ll never understand myself, either.”

 

\---

 

He must have fallen asleep after all because the dreams he had were disturbing. He knew on some level that he was dreaming as he found himself standing in the dank cellar again, surrounded by Felidae in cat and human form, their eyes hungrily eating at him. There was a low murmur of voices around him, but none of them moved their mouths. They just stared, as though they were waiting for him to do or say something.

 

He moved his feet and stepped into something wet. Looking down, Schuldig saw the puddles of blood on the ground, around his bare feet. His chest was bare as well - there were scratches, bite marks, the slight shine of sweat on his skin.

 

The presence at his back made itself noticed so suddenly that he spun around too quickly and nearly stumbled, catching his balance at the last moment. It was all that saved him from a punch coming his way, a punch that might have taken out an eye, split a lip, cracked a bone. He spun around and kicked more out of surprise than calculated reaction and caught Farfarello in the stomach, pushing him back. The leader of the Felidae grinned, the expression on his face nothing short of raving madness as he pressed forward again, hands lifted, fingers bent to claws. Schuldig ducked under the next blow and heard the air sing around Farfarello’s fingernails as he hit the floor and rolled, blood and dust sticking his hair to his back.

 

What disturbed him most was the sight of Farfarello’s slit pupils, bright amber surrounding them. Schuldig opened his mouth, tried to shout, but all that came from his throat was a dry, hacking cough as a fist caught him square in the face, Farfarello’s entire weight behind the punch. He felt the cartilage of his nose shatter and burst and blood run down the back of his throat, the pain like a blinding light coming at him from all sides. Landing on his back, Schuldig brought his arms up to shield his face from further damage and curled his legs up close to his stomach.

 

“You know nothing!” Farfarello bellowed, so agitated that his voice broke on the last word. “Nothing! You understand nothing at all!”

 

Schuldig glanced up at him through the shield of his arms, saw madness and death, and woke abruptly, jerked from his sleep as a hand settled on his cheek. His muscles tensed as he stared at Farfarello’s face from up close, concern in those amber eyes. Finding his hands pressed against Farfarello’s chest, ready to push him away and off the bed - they lay face to face, with the Felidae still perched at the edge of the bed - Schuldig needed a long moment to find his bearings before he relaxed enough to take a deep, cleansing breath. His muscles hurt. The phantom ache of a shattered nose made him grit his teeth hard enough to make the muscles in his jaw hurt as well.

 

“Just a dream,” Schuldig finally pressed out, making an effort to relax. “Did I wake you?” He lifted his head and glanced at the room, finding it cast into semi-darkness once more. It had to be close to evening. Had they slept all day? He caught Farfarello’s hand as it slid off his face, the knuckles cold against his lips as he kissed them. “I’m sorry.”

 

Farfarello’s expression was sad and closed off. “I’m sorry. Such dreams...” He trailed off, moving his fingers against Schuldig’s face as the Vampire started to rub his lips over the back of his hand. “I want you to dream of me, but not like this. Never like this.”

 

Not the words, but the tone of voice made Schuldig shudder. He clasped the Felidae’s hand tighter and stroked his thumb over Farfarello’s palm, realizing that the intensity of the dream must have been like a beacon to his telepathy, waking him up. As it was, Farfarello’s eyes were still small with sleepiness. He blinked owlishly as Schuldig let go of his hand and wrapped his arm around him, pulling him close. Had he expected rejection?

 

“You’re cold.” Feeling Goosebumps under his fingers, Schuldig sighed, glancing at the lengthening shadows cast by the furniture. “It’s icy in here. You’ll catch a cold.” He sniffed. “And you stink of sweat and blood.”

 

That brought a grin to Farfarello’s lips. “How concerned you are! Are you inviting me to another bath at your place?”

 

“No, but I think you could make use of the perfect bathtub I saw in the bathroom at the end of the corridor.” Now that he thought of it, Schuldig realized that his own skin and hair seemed to have soaked up the very substances he smelled on Farfarello, their sharp odour more distinct now than they had been hours ago. The lack of living comforts was another thing he could not understand about the Felidae - they had this house, but instead of using it they methodically demolished the furniture and preferred cold rooms and beds without blankets. “Is there a rule among your kin that forbids you to use bathrooms and fireplaces?”

 

Giving a small shrug, Farfarello blinked once more and yawned, apparently ready to drop off to sleep again. “No rule.”

 

“Then why...”

 

“You ask too many questions for such an ungodly hour.”

 

Schuldig sighed as Farfarello closed his eyes, knowing he could not go back to sleep again. The Felidae seemed content where he was, snuggled up against him, but the idea of warmth and a bath was foremost on Schuldig’s mind now, forcing him to move around restlessly until Farfarello sighed as well, cracked an eye open again and said, “All right.”

 

He detected a note of forced amusement in his voice. “Don’t make it sound as though I’m forcing you to do something you don’t want.”

 

“You’re forcing me to do a lot of things I don’t want,” Rolling away from Schuldig and off the bed, Farfarello stretched, leaving the Vampire to follow as he strolled to the door and out into the corridor. He did not explain his words further and ignored Schuldig’s scowl, leading the way into the bathroom.

 

They said nothing as they waited for the water to heat. With just a few words Farfarello had managed to completely shatter the illusion of intimacy between them, reminding Schuldig once more that they were both trespassers in this. Sourly, Schuldig asked himself if Farfarello was doing it on purpose. Or was he merely stating facts?

 

Farfarello kept watching him out of the corner of his eyes, expression set between anticipation and something else. “You’ve become quite good at shielding yourself.”

 

He had been working on that and now was able to run a current of steady images through his mind without having to think about it while his _thoughts_ ran beneath. “That bothers you.”

 

“It’s annoying. I pick up what’s foremost on your mind if I want it or not, and as much as I appreciate your obvious interest in the English culture, being exposed to a slideshow of London’s architectural wonders for hours on end is tiring.”

 

“So is having to think of it.” Schuldig remembered what Anna had told him and wondered how many of the younger Felidae had the telepathy Farfarello used. Then he thought of Anna’s corpse, of her broken neck, and forced himself to concentrate on pouring hot water into the claw-footed bathtub. It was nothing he wanted to remember now. “I’ll stop doing it when you stop reading my thoughts.”

 

Farfarello shrugged, “Not possible. Big Ben in all its glory it is, then.”

 

The bathroom was small and had been stripped of its furniture as well, the Felidae’s seemingly mindless redecoration urges leaving it only with the bathtub and an oven sitting next to the window. There was a stack of towels and wash cloths on the windowsill, stacked untidily into a corner. The room heated up quickly with the steam rising from the hot water. Schuldig stripped off his shirt and shoes, then started to unfasten his pants. The warmth felt good against his skin after a day spent sleeping in a cold room. He folded his clothes and put them on the windowsill, and when he turned around Farfarello stood naked next to the bathtub, stirring the water with a hand. The dirty pants he had worn lay in a crumbled heap by the door. The sight of his long-limbed, pale and lean body made Schuldig’s mouth go dry.

 

He wanted him so much. He wanted to touch him, have him, _possess_ him, without any disturbances intruding on what seemed a mutual interest that was doomed from the start. The dream had rattled him, as his dreams usually did lately, and Schuldig wanted a distraction. They had been close on several occasions, but always something had interrupted them.

 

Desire and anticipation flushing his skin, Schuldig walked over and caught Farfarello around the waist, pressing their bodies together. The steam rising from the bathtub finally brought warmth to the Felidae’s skin. Farfarello craned his neck, bringing his face very close to Schuldig’s, and breathed against his cheek, “Excited, are you?”

 

He did not bother to deny it and pressed his growing arousal more firmly against the Felidae’s backside, nudging him, and trailed his free hand down Farfarello’s stomach, brushing curly hair and silken skin. “If anyone interrupts us now I’m going to kill them no matter what.”

 

Farfarello laughed, a deep, breathy sound that reverberated through his entire body and seemed to transmute into electricity where their bodies touched. Schuldig grasped him, held him, and rubbed a thumb over the head of his cock, eliciting a sharp groan. He was a little surprised as Farfarello then wound himself out of his arms and stepped into the bathtub, immediately sitting down in the steaming water.

 

“Bath first.” An impish grin on his lips, Farfarello splashed water at the Vampire, leaning back against the side of the tub. “Come here.”

 

It was an invitation Schuldig would not have needed. It was hard to keep himself from pouncing the Felidae as he followed him into the tub, mindless of the water that splashed over the edge. The tub was not large - it certainly had not been build with the intention of having room for more than one person - but that was all right with Schuldig as well. He wanted to be as close to Farfarello as possible now, anyway.

 

They played around for a good ten minutes, splashing water at each other, as though the simple act of taking a bath together somehow washed away all the gruesome circumstances that surrounded their meeting and still influenced the way they saw each other. Schuldig found it all easy to ignore - the deaths, the suspicions, and the questions he still wanted answers to - as he trapped Farfarello against the side of the tub and explored his chest with fingers and lips, at first taking care to avoid the scratches and bite marks marring the fair skin. Most of them had already closed - in fact, Schuldig inspected one on the cusp of Farfarello’s shoulder and wondered how quickly it was healing - but the heat and the water loosened up the scabs. He trailed his lips over a particularly deep one and tasted blood against the tip of his tongue. Pulling back, Schuldig licked his lips.

 

“More.”

 

Farfarello laid his head back against the edge of the tub and watched him through narrowed eyes, his face slack. He lifted a dripping hand out of the water and placed it over his own heart, fingers curling against the skin. “I’ve had yours.”

 

He let no further explanation follow but hissed, the sharp edge of a fingernail opening a line down his chest. Schuldig watched, transfixed, as blood welled from the small wound, mixing with the drops of water on Farfarello’s skin. He moved forward, reaching for Farfarello’s hand to pull it down, and fastened his lips over the wound, the taste of fresh, _unknown_ blood exploding into his mouth. Again their roles had been reversed; Schuldig was now wrapping his arms around Farfarello’s middle, pulling him closer, feeling his legs slips around his waist as they folded their bodies into one another. The wound did not give him much - just a shallow cut, nothing more - but enough to wake the hunger for more in him. Knowing a dangerous chain reaction could be started that way - and how was it for the Felidae, who experienced the same bloodlust the Vampire did? Was it the same craving, the same mindless need? - he pulled back again, tongue and teeth singing with desire.

 

He heard whispers, voices and cobweb-thin sounds, fading as quickly as they had come, and shuddered.

 

Farfarello breathed hard, chest heaving. His arms stretched out along the edge of the tub, the Felidae’s head rolled from side to side, eyes closed. Schuldig watched him and cupped his cheek with a hand, holding him still. Farfarello’s eyes did not open even as the Vampire’s mouth descended on his, lips parting willingly to allow Schuldig entrance into the hot cavity. He felt Farfarello’s heart hammer against his skin as they pressed together, splashing more water onto the floor.

 

Heat, desire and the still lingering taste of blood in his mouth slowly drove all rational thought from Schuldig’s mind. The world narrowed down to just him and Farfarello and the hot water around them. Had it not been for the limited space, he could have spent hours in the tub, kissing the Felidae. The longer he did, the more familiar Farfarello’s taste became to him, until his entire being felt saturated with the spiciness that was Farfarello’s unique scent echoed into his blood. Yet the kiss never rose above the heights of exploring and languid, slow and gentle.

 

Eventually, Farfarello started to roll his hips against Schuldig’s groin, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders, his chest, his arms. He was the one to break the kiss, head falling back to expose his throat and allow Schuldig to explore there, and say, “Let’s get out of the water.”

 

The thought of leaving the tub to return to the cold, chaotic throne room and the bare bed made Schuldig frown. He tightened his arms around Farfarello, teeth gently worrying at his collar bones, and contemplated persuading Farfarello to stay here, where it was warm and comfortable.

 

“Schuldig...” Farfarello trailed his fingers down Schuldig’s back, scratching lightly at the skin. He moved in the cage of the Vampire’s arms, pressing himself closer, and finally lifted Schuldig’s head between both hands. “We’re clean. We’re wrinkled. And I _really_ want to take this beyond the kissing and soaking in hot water stage.”

 

The dry words made him chuckle, but still... “Got any place in this house that is _not_ stripped of all furniture and cold?”

 

Farfarello grinned. “You must think us barbarians.”

 

“Close. From what I’ve seen...”

 

Farfarello dipped his head forward and caught Schuldig’s lips in a deep kiss. They were both breathing hard by the time they parted again, and the smile on the Felidae’s lips was positively devilish. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

 

“Really?” Curiosity piqued, Schuldig inclined his head and fixed Farfarello with an expectant look. “Show me, then.”

 

\---

 

Wrapped in nothing but his own wet skin and hair plastered to his back, Schuldig felt odd as he wandered through the ghostly silent house, Farfarello by his side. He could not get rid of the impression that there were others around them, hiding around corners, sitting behind curtains, even though Farfarello told him twice that they were alone and that no one would interrupt them. The abrupt change from steamy warmth to the dry cold of the rest of the house was little to Schuldig’s liking, and as Farfarello led him down to the ground floor and to the back of the house, he wondered if it maybe had not been the better idea to stay in the bathroom.

 

Farfarello opened a door at the end of a narrow corridor and ushered Schuldig into the room beyond. Expecting to be met with a similar chaos like upstairs, Schuldig was pleasantly surprised to see that there were blankets and pillows on the floor but no furniture scattered all over the room. There was only a single window, going out into the garden behind the house. Schuldig walked over to it, looking outside at wet foliage and high grass that had not been cut in months. He drew the curtains, casting the room into semi-darkness. Golden light chased away the shadows as Farfarello lit several candles sitting on a small table next to the heap of blankets and then busied himself with the glowing embers in the fireplace on the other side of the room. Soon, a flickering glow heralded the warmth that to Schuldig felt like a caressing hand. He glanced at the window once more, ensured that no prying eyes would be able to catch sight of them, and joined Farfarello in front of the fireplace.

 

It was so hopelessly romantic a setting that he had to grin. The candles, the flickering fire - he ran a hand over the blankets he sat on and found them soft and thick. There was no bed, but they would do just fine. He experienced a stab of anticipation as Farfarello turned from the fire and sat down on his heels, watching him for a long moment before he let himself down on hands and knees and stalked over.

 

“Why is this room fine while all the others are in chaos?”

 

“No need for order in the others.” The Felidae wasted no time and moved right into Schuldig’s lap, knees settling on either side of the Vampire’s thighs, hands descending on his shoulders to push him down against the blankets. “Why create order if chaos is natural?”

 

“The very form of chaos insinuates order,” Schuldig plunked onto his back and reached up, running his hands along Farfarello’s side before he gripped his hips, thumbs moving over the sharp edges of hip bones. Poised above him as he was, with the fire behind him, Farfarello’s face was once again bathed in shadows. His arousal had lessened during the trip through the house, but now that he finally had his comfortable surrounding, his warmth, and assured that no one would interrupt them, Schuldig needed only to think of what was to follow to harden again. And as Farfarello ground himself down on him Schuldig closed his eyes in bliss and sighed.

 

Again, Farfarello wasted no time. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, plucking at Schuldig’s nipples, stroking along his ribs, his thighs, his cock. Lips joined questing fingers, creating a web of tingling nerves along the length of Schuldig’s body. He arched his back into the touches and kisses and ran his fingers through Farfarello’s hair as the Felidae took him into his mouth, concentrating all the sensation on a single spot. The slick pleasure of the hot, wet suction washed over him in waves, leaving him mindless once more.

 

He moaned in disappointment as Farfarello pulled away and lifted his head to look down.

 

“Wha -”

 

The question died on his tongue. Crouched between his legs, one set of fingers wrapped firmly around the root of Schuldig’s cock, Farfarello looked like a dangerous animal ready to pounce. His eyes were on fire, the pupils narrowed to slits. Schuldig blinked, expecting the picture to change, but it did not, and he felt alarmed and unsettled all of a sudden as he thought about the absurdity of Farfarello changing into his cat form _now_.

 

Their eyes always changed first.

 

He lifted himself onto his elbows, panting, and jerked as Farfarello moved as well, shifting position between his legs. Fingertips moved over his balls, pressed against the sensitive skin behind them. Fingertips turned to knuckles, and the firm massage that followed, brief as it may have been, had the Vampire groaning and panting for more. Schuldig’s breath caught in his throat as he felt a single finger trace the puckered ring of muscle between his buttocks, teasing, taunting. Their gazes fixed on each other, Schuldig could not bring himself to look away from those predatory eyes.

 

There was no question as to who would be the dominant one in this encounter. Farfarello certainly seemed to think so as he brought two fingers to his mouth and sucked them in between his lips, the gesture as obscene as it was arousing. With his body keeping Schuldig’s legs spread and his other hand still wrapped snugly around Schuldig’s cock, there was no escaping the wet finger that insistently pressed into him. The sensation came as much as a surprise as the stab of pleasure that made Schuldig’s arms give out. He fell back down onto the blankets, torn between wanting to pull away and pushing closer.

 

“Scared?” Farfarello asked in a rough voice, shifting up onto his knees to look down at Schuldig’s face. “Should I stop?”

 

An all _too_ talented twist of finger robbed Schuldig of breath. He gave a weak laugh that turned into a groan as Farfarello none-too-gently pressed the second wet finger into him, the ring of muscle protesting the stretching with tiny but persisting stabs of pain.

 

“Would you prefer me to spread my legs for you?”

 

And again with those railroad signs. Through the haze of pleasure, Schuldig saw the calculating, _waiting_ expression on the Felidae’s face, wondering where he had missed the change from the almost needy being from yesterday night to willing supplicant to the decidedly aggressive version of Farfarello he was being faced with now. It was exhilarating and did not leave him with a lot of time to choose - if the choice had ever been his. If there was a choice at all. Farfarello pushed his fingers into him up to the knuckles, rotated them, and touched a spot that sent white noise straight to the Vampire’s head.

 

_Elder. Pack leader._

 

Never before had Schuldig been so quickly and efficiently overwhelmed. He had counted on some kind of foreplay to decide who would be the -

 

\- what? Submissive? Vessel?

 

Farfarello pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in and Schuldig’s thoughts feathered and died. Dominant, submissive, what did it matter? He wanted him _now_ , whichever way possible. Loosely wrapping his legs around Farfarello’s waist, Schuldig gripped handfuls of the blankets he lay on and bared his teeth at him, hissing, “Take me.”

 

Farfarello grinned decidedly too darkly and pulled out of him, stretching over to the side to reach for something at the edge of the heap of blankets. The small vial of clear liquid caught the shine of the fire once before it vanished out of Schuldig’s sight, but he could smell the scent of the oil as Farfarello uncorked the vial. He expected everything but not the fingers that once again entered him, easier now that a more suitable lubricant was spread over them.

 

“Hold your legs up,” Farfarello said.

 

Any embarrassment at exposing himself so completely to the Felidae vanished under the onslaught of pleasure that followed the fingers as Farfarello began to stretch him, displaying the very care Schuldig had thought he would be denied in the face of his aggressiveness. He was very quickly brought to a point where he did not care anymore, where all that mattered was that it just did not stop. He folded himself nearly in half, knees drawn up to his chest, and closed his eyes with a moan of approval as three fingers entered him. It did not matter if it was to concentrate on the pleasure or to escape the fixed gaze of Farfarello’s eyes.

 

Farfarello replaced his fingers with his cock, sliding in on one slow, torturously gentle thrust. Deeper, thicker, _fuller_ \- Schuldig let go of his knees and wrapped his legs around Farfarello’s back, crossing his ankles, and grabbed onto his waist to sharply pull him forward.

 

Farfarello hissed, the sound close to Schuldig’s ear. Opening his eyes, Schuldig gasped at the sight of Farfarello now hunched over him, hands on either side of his shoulders. His expression was pure bliss. Schuldig’s gaze wandered along the tensed, bunched muscle on his arms and shoulders; he felt the tremors where they were joined and shivered, his own muscles contracting. It made Farfarello groan. His eyes narrowed. He shifted a little above Schuldig and pulled his hips back, thrusting into him, the head of his cock rubbing over that sensitive spot inside the Vampire that sent coloured bursts of pleasure through Schuldig’s entire body. His moan of approval was met with a breathless growl as Farfarello set a fast, hard pace that quickly had both of them panting.

 

It went on for minutes that seemed to turn into hours, and whenever Schuldig thought Farfarello would shove him over that edge he felt lurking at the very border of his consciousness, the Felidae slowed down, shifted, and started again. He seemed to have found perverse pleasure in mercilessly bringing Schuldig close to orgasm only to then let him drop back to the burning, itching, _needing_ stage of being brought back to the same point all over again.

 

_Do you like it? Is that what you wanted?_

 

He must have dropped his shields, or perhaps they had dissolved under the pleasure, or perhaps he just did not care anymore. Unable to form a coherent answer, Schuldig gritted his teeth, fingers digging so hard into Farfarello’s hips that they had to leave bruises. He could have screamed in frustration as Farfarello suddenly stopped moving altogether, hips pressed tightly against Schuldig’s ass, and then pulled out.

 

The Felidae moved him as though he was a doll, rolling him onto his stomach and pulling him onto his knees. He spread his legs at the simple touch of a hand and pressed his brow against his arms, groaning into the blankets as he was filled again. One of Farfarello’s hands sneaked around his waist and wrapped around his aching cock, fisting him in time with the thrusts that rocked his entire body.

 

He came so hard he saw stars and started to shout as Farfarello continued to move, pain adding to pleasure as his muscles contracted sharply around the hard length filling him. The pleasure ricocheted through his body and poured out of his cock, over Farfarello’s fingers. He was ready to beg him to stop when Farfarello thrust once more and gave a strangled, strange growl, gripping Schuldig’s cock so hard the Vampire thought for one endlessly long moment he would rip it off in his excitement.

 

Yet the grip softened immediately, turned into stroking, gentle fingers, and then Farfarello pulled out of him and Schuldig simply collapsed forward with a groan of exhaustion. He felt empty, and now that the high of pleasure was slowly fading he felt the ache and the burn as well. Most of all though, he felt exhaustion. The muscles in his legs ached as he stretched them out. His knees stung.

 

“Wimp,” Farfarello said lightly, although he too sounded tired and out of breath. Schuldig turned his head and opened an eye to see him settle down at his side, wiping sweat from his brow. The desire to hit him for that remark passed quickly as he remembered that hitting Farfarello included moving, and there was no way in hell he could lift even a finger now.

 

“I suppose you do that every day,” Schuldig said, slightly annoyed. The ominous silence that followed made him open the other eye as well and give Farfarello a long, questioning stare. “...do you?”

 

“No,” Farfarello said, but the reluctance in his answer spoke volumes.

 

Schuldig was too tired and felt too good despite all the minor aches to ask more questions. He made a small sound of approval as Farfarello pulled a blanket over them both and settled in close, tangling their limbs together. The sweat on their skin dried quickly. Feeling drowsy and _sated_ , Schuldig nearly purred as Farfarello began to stroke his back, apparently unable to hold still yet. He fell asleep under the gentle touches.

 

This time, he did not dream.

 

\---

 

He woke to the feeling of something small and light walking over his naked back. He knew it was a kitten, felts its tiny paws along his spine and the tickle of whiskers as it sniffed on the nape of his back, and turned over carefully, wincing as several aches made themselves noticed at the same time. The most prominent one...well, that had to be expected. The kitten gave a small mew as it slipped off him and landed in the blankets at Schuldig’s side, but it did not scamper off even as the Vampire sat up, apparently unfazed by the sight of a naked, flame-haired stranger.

 

Looking around, Schuldig discovered that he was alone except for the company of the small cat. The fire had burned down but it was still comfortably warm in the room; grey, murky light tried to force its way past the curtains before the single window, letting him know that it was day outside. How long had he slept? He had lost all sense of time once more.

 

The kitten mewed. It was the same kitten Schuldig had seen Farfarello hold the first time he laid eyes on the leader of the Felidae. Reaching out, he carefully stroked his fingers along its soft fur and smiled as it immediately rolled over onto it back, expecting to be petted. He complied and discovered that the door was only leaned shut while he petted the kitten.

 

_Farfarello?_

 

He froze at the wordless, angry answer. Ignoring the kittens protesting mewl, Schuldig rose, gathering the blanket as a makeshift toga around himself, and padded over to the door, giving it a small push. The corridor behind it was empty, but as he stepped outside he heard the faint words of a conversation going on somewhere in front of him.

 

The feeling of foreboding was like a fist slowly squeezing his innards together.

 

“... _told_ you I would deal with it, and I will!”

 

He walked around the stairwell and listened, following the sound of Farfarello’s agitated voice into a large room on the ground floor. The leader of the Felidae stood with his back to the door and did not turn as Schuldig walked in, but the three others standing around Farfarello did, fixing the Vampire with angry, hateful stares. Schuldig immediately recognized the male and the female he had seen in Anna’s company and returned their stares until they looked away from him.

 

The third Felidae was a tall, heavily muscles male that looked like the one who had opened the door to Schuldig the night before. He gave the Vampire an once-over before he turned his attention back to Farfarello and said, “Body was heavily mutilated. No clue who or what did it.”

 

“We all know who did it!” the female screeched, her finger pointed at Schuldig. “They did it! Why don’t you -”

 

Farfarello’s fist flew out fast and hard, catching her across the face with a loud smack. She stumbled back and fell, gasping, her hand pressed against the side of her face that was slowly turning red. Her companion and the tall male hastily retreated from Farfarello as he whirled to face the female sitting on the floor, his voice a dangerously low growl as he said, “Why don’t I _what_ , Sara?”

 

Schuldig could only see the side of her face from his position by the door, but he could almost smell her fear as she stared up at her leader towering over her. Her eyes were wide. Farfarello took a step forward, causing her to cower with a small shriek, “I asked you a question, Sara. Answer me.”

 

“I - I -” Sara’s eyes flitted through the room, but Schuldig saw the two others look everywhere but at her. Feeling like nothing more than a spectator at this point, the Vampire watched her bow her head in a gesture of submission as she whispered, “Forgive me. It’s just - first Anna, and now -”

 

“Never do that again,” Farfarello interrupted her acidly, the threat in his very words freezing the air in the room. To Schuldig, it was as though Farfarello had suddenly grown a few inches, as though the anger and the very presence of his power made him taller, heavier, deadlier than the other three. This was decidedly not one of the times the leader of the Felidae tried to hide what had to be considerable strength. “Unless you want to be the next in the cellar - or on your own.”

 

Sara bowed her head and whispered another apology, careful not to meet Farfarello’s gaze.

 

Witnessing something he was sure he was not meant to see or hear, Schuldig tried to make himself invisible. As interesting as watching Farfarello interact with his clan was, Schuldig knew a tense situation when he saw one, and this was nothing of his concern. Whatever had happened lay solely in Farfarello’s territory. Or did it?

 

Farfarello turned from the cowering female and asked, “Where is the body?”

 

“Hidden beneath a bush close to the palace. Dead two days, maybe less.” The muscled male shot Schuldig a glance, but this time there was curiosity mixed into the disapproval the Vampire felt as clearly as a slap to the face. “Thanks to the cold there’s no decomposition, but she’s been mutilated enough to make it hard to recognize her. Took us a while to figure out who she was.”

 

“We had a full gathering here yesterday night. Why did no one notice her absence then?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Schuldig felt something soft stroke against his bare ankle and looked down to see the kitten sitting next to his feet, looking up at him with guileless, wide eyes. It opened its tiny maw and yawned, then went up on its hind legs and playfully swiped at his leg, uttering a loud mew. Wincing at the shallow lines that opened on his skin, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it in the crook of his arm where it seemed to be content, and when he looked back at the other Felidae he found their eyes fixed on him with something akin to amusement.

 

It did not last long, however. Farfarello was the first to dismiss Schuldig and the kitten from his attention as he turned back to the two males and said in a deceptively soft voice, “I want you to find whoever was with her before she vanished. Who was the first to notice her absence?”

 

“That would be her mate, Jake.” The tall male gave a curt nod. “I’ll get him. I know where he is now.”

 

“Sara and Pavel - gather the clan.”

 

Sara looked up at last, timidly asking, “Everyone?”

 

“ _Every_ one.”

 

They did not look at Schuldig as they rushed from the room, eager to follow their leader’s command. Schuldig did not know if he should be amused or put off by the blatant show of leadership - or submission the others displayed. The Felidae indeed followed rules that would be considered arcane these days, starting with the way they lived to the way they thought, if those two were really different things. Even his post as Elder of London did not ensure Schuldig’s absolute reign, if it could be called such. It simply meant that he had a little more to say than the others when it came to decisions that concerned them all. Elder did not mean king among the Vampires. All too often it meant supervisor or being the shoulder someone else cried on.

 

Farfarello ruled. It was as simple as that. And none of the Felidae who lived and died under the rule of their king seemed to mind that fact. Schuldig was as much intrigued as sickened by both the simplicity of it all as well as its implications. If Farfarello told a brother and a sister to mate, would they do it? If he called one of the females to his bed, would she follow? Was that harem of cats he had seen here the first time a group of willing supplicants, or a band of intimidated cowards? He thought about Farfarello’s reluctant answer to Schuldig’s question about his experience. To Schuldig, all cats looked just like that - cats. He had no way of distinguishing male from female unless he turned one over and examined.

 

And where exactly did that put him, the Vampire?

 

He looked over his shoulder and caught Sara doing the same. This time, her glance was not nearly as hostile anymore, showing more concern than the outright hate he had seen in them when he walked in. The side of her face that Farfarello had struck was slowly turning a deep shade of crimson, marring her clean beauty. What was he to them? A trespasser or Farfarello’s flavour of the month?

 

He decided not to think about it for the sake of his own ego.

 

“You have a good grip on your underlings,” Schuldig commented lightly as the front door closed. He petted the kitten with one hand, watching Farfarello pace the length of the room before him. “Even the queen, bless her iron heart, could not put such fears into the hearts and minds of her servants.”

 

“They’re not my servants, they’re my _clan_ ,” Farfarello corrected him, the words clipped, harsh.

 

“Well, I certainly don’t see a difference. Would you care to tell me what happened?”

 

“Can’t you guess?” There was impatience mixed in with the harshness now, as though he was dealing with a particularly dense member of his clan. Schuldig ignored the tone of voice and shrugged lightly; he had a good idea of what had happened but wanted to hear it from Farfarello himself. The Felidae gave a long, loud sigh and leaned against the wall, “We found another dead one.”

 

“I gathered as much from that...discussion just now.”

 

“Then why do you ask?” Farfarello shook his head and glared down at the floor before his feet. “They’re bringing the body. She was killed by a Vampire, no doubt about it.”

 

Schuldig briefly closed his eyes, felt the kitten wind itself under his hand, and wished the Felidae had never set foot in London. He realized it was not so much for his sake but for _theirs_ , his wishing to never have seen them. He had no idea what was going through Farfarello’s head at the moment, what plans he was making now. One thing he did know though was that things were likely to become more tangled, more violent, and more _absurd_. “What are you going to do?”

 

“I told you nothing was finished with Anna’s and William’s deaths. I told you nothing was done.”

 

“You told me that nothing was settled and done.” He sighed. “You rarely _tell_ me anything.”

 

“I have no reason to.”

 

That stung. Anger rising, Schuldig set the kitten down on the floor and crossed the room until he stood before Farfarello. “No reason to? What am I to you? Do you care about me at all?”

 

“That has nothing to do with it.” Easily, Farfarello held his stare. He had crossed his arms over his chest, as though he was trying to create a physical barrier between them. “What happens - happened between you and me has nothing to do with anything.”

 

“How can it not?” Schuldig asked, his voice steadily rising in volume. Farfarello’s choice of words made it sound as though their intimate encounter meant nothing now, as though it had only been a brief interlude. Harem of cats indeed. He would not be brushed off that easily; he would not be treated as a ‘snack’ between others. “A Felidae was killed by a Vampire, I _am_ a Vampire, _how_ has this nothing to do with me?”

 

“You didn’t kill her, did you?”

 

“You killed Christine, you bastard! You set William up and had Anna go in and kill him, just to settle an old score!” he screamed. “Yet I’m here! Yet I trust you! Why can’t you trust me? Why can’t you tell me what is going on, what is happening?”

 

Farfarello turned from him and walked to the door, stepping over the kitten. It shrank from him, mewing pitifully.

 

Schuldig could not believe that everything that had happened between them just hours ago meant nothing now. That Farfarello could so easily brush off the intimacy, brush off what they had shared - did that not mean anything to him at all?

 

“Farfarello, if you walk out of that door now I swear I’ll _never_ set foot in this house again.”

 

The Felidae stopped just before he reached the door, his back turned to Schuldig. The line of his shoulders was tense, and the Vampire could see his hands clench into fists at his sides. He was going through something - but as long as he was not willing to share it with Schuldig, there was no way the Vampire could either help or understand him. It aggravated and frustrated Schuldig. It made him feel so completely worthless, so - _used_. He had given so much and received nothing in return. Was he not even worth an explanation to Farfarello?

 

“What happens now,” Farfarello said softly, his back still turned, “Is what I said would happen.”

 

Schuldig remembered. “War.” He shook his head. “You know what that means.”

 

“I’ll tell you something else.” Farfarello’s face was expressionless as he turned around. “There is one more.”

 

Surprise made him gape. “What?”

 

“William and Christine weren’t the only ones who got away. The third one is hiding somewhere in London, and now he is finally beginning to show himself.” Sneering, he went on, “Through murder. As it befits him.”

 

Schuldig shook his head, mouth hanging open in the face of the revelation. “Wait...what are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying the score isn’t settled yet.” His words lacking every kind of inflection, Farfarello lifted his chin, glancing down his nose at the Vampire. “I’m going to say something else now. Listen well to me, Schuldig, because I’m saying it only once - I did not kill Christine. And neither did any of my clan.”

 

He walked out before Schuldig had the chance to say another word. The kitten mewed, looking back and forth between the door and Schuldig, and finally scampered out as well, leaving the Vampire alone in the large, empty room.

 

\---

 

There was no sight or sound of any Felidae as Schuldig left the house in Mayfair in a hurry, and none of the mortals paid any attention to the flame-haired, harried-looking young man as he strode down the streets. It was late afternoon - he had completely misjudged the time thanks to his arriving early in the morning and staying for what had to be two days - and the murky, stale light hurt his eyes, but Schuldig was past the point of caring as he went over what Farfarello had told him.

 

Three. Three Vampires, three who had gotten away before Farfarello’s wrath descended on the others back then in Ireland. Three who, over the centuries, had survived the teeth of time eating away at the Felidae’s memory until he found them again in London of all places?

 

Schuldig did try to understand the workings of Farfarello’s mind as far as this was concerned. How such need for revenge could last for such a last time was beyond his understanding; he did not know if he should term it petty or pitiful, that even after all these years Farfarello was set on finding those who had escaped him back then.

 

But that was not important now. The gears had been set into motion once more, and with stinging clarity Schuldig realized that the only way to stop them from grinding to a dead halt was to find the third Vampire before the Felidae did. There was no telling what would happen if the others found out that there was a third Vampire likely to die - if that came to pass, there would really be a war between the two Dark Breeds. While Theodore might have backed up the causes of Christine’s and William’s deaths, he had never said anything about a _third_ survivor. Farfarello’s word was all that stood for there even being a third...or a fourth? A fifth?

 

What if Farfarello decided to pick off the Vampires one after the other even after the real score had already been settled? The others would not take it and start a fight; the Felidae would follow their leader. Schuldig just did not know who would come out as the winner.

 

Farfarello’s potential alone was a big unknown. How many of the other Felidae were old enough and powerful enough to stand a chance in a fight with a Vampire? After seeing William’s torn throat and Anna’s bloody mouth Schuldig knew that even the younger Felidae were strong enough to maybe survive, if they fought viciously enough and had something to fight _for_. Witnessing the way they heeded their leader’s words, Farfarello’s very authority seemed a very good reason to fight. Undoubtedly they would not ask twice if he told them to attack.

 

He became aware of how hungry he was just as he reached Shaftesbury Avenue. Being in Farfarello’s company had made him forget all about feeding; now that he was on his own again he realized how easy it was to forget about the world outside while he occupied himself with the Felidae. Farfarello had a way of ensuring that all attention was focused on him even if it was by annoying the hell out of Schuldig.

 

Feeding had to come later. He raced up the stairs and was met by Crawford, who stood in the open door to their apartment and greeted him with, “Where the _hell_ have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

 

Schuldig brushed past him, throwing his coat onto the floor. “We have to find a Vampire.”

 

“Have you lost your mind?” Crawford closed the door and gave him a bewildered stare. He was going to say something else, but then he sniffed the air and drew a face. “You reek of cat, Schu. Tell me no more.”

 

“We have to find a Vampire,” he repeated impatiently, stripping off his shirt. He needed to take a bath or at least wash and get new clothes before he went out again. “There’s been a dead Felidae and I think Farfarello is going for a war.”

 

Crawford’s eyes widened in surprise. For the briefest of moments, his expression was closed off. He followed Schuldig into the bathroom, muttering to himself. Schuldig paid him no attention as he washed. In his mind, he was trying to come up with a plan of how to proceed now - they had to go to the “Raven” and talk to Theodore again, and then -

 

His mind came to a grinding halt. He dropped the washcloth, felt the water splash against his chest as it hit the basin. Theodore! Could it be that Theodore was the third Vampire Farfarello was looking for? Theodore had told them about Farfarello’s past in the first place, Theodore had insisted that they not tell William anything - and for what? He gripped the edge of the small table he stood before, asking himself how he could have been so blind. Could it be that Theodore had not wanted William to know because he did not want anything about his _own_ past to be known? Schuldig had known the owner of the Raven for a very long time, but as with all Dark Breeds there were years and years hidden away in the shadowed abysses of time.

 

What could William have told them, had they only asked?

 

“Schuldig?” The concerned tone of Crawford’s voice roused Schuldig from his contemplations. “What is going on? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

 

He caught his reflection in the mirror above the washing basin, saw too sharp blue eyes and too pale, drawn skin stretched thin over cheekbones, his flaming hair a sharp contrast, and turned to his companion, “We have to talk to Theodore immediately.”

 

“Theodore? Schuldig, you -”

 

“Farfarello told me that there are _three_ Vampires who got away back then in Ireland. Three, not two like Theodore said. William and Christine are already dead. And just today another Felidae turned up dead - killed and mutilated, according to their words.” Finishing his hurried washing, Schuldig brushed past Crawford again and went into his bedroom for a change of clothing, calling over his shoulder, “I just have to talk to Theodore again to make sure that _he_ isn’t the third Vampire Farfarello is looking for.”

 

Crawford’s hand caught him by the shoulders and spun him around just as he pulled a fresh shirt out of the closet. He dropped it out of surprise, so caught up in his rapid contemplations. “What?”

 

“Theodore is dead, Schuldig.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“I had a feeling that you were spending time with Farfarello and I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Crawford squeezed his shoulders and sighed, “You really must have lost track of time. Someone set fire to the ‘Raven’ early yesterday morning.”

 

Gaping, Schuldig began to shake his head. “What? But - I don’t understand...” He was floundering, trying to fit what Crawford told him into a time frame. Yesterday morning - had that been before or after he took that bath with Farfarello and later woke up with a kitten walking all over his back? Crawford was right, he _really_ had lost track of time. “Farfarello was with me all the time.”

 

He stopped himself, frowned. Had the leader of the Felidae really been with him all the time? He had had that dream...his shields had slipped. Farfarello had admitted to eavesdropping. Was it too fantastic to believe that if Farfarello listened to the thoughts of others, he could influence them as well? Trap someone in a dream?

 

He did not protest as Crawford steered him toward the bed and sat him down, more confused than ever. Nothing made sense anymore. Had Farfarello killed Theodore? _Was_ Theodore the third Vampire had had been looking for? Had someone else killed Theodore? If so, why?

 

“Did you find a body?” he asked slowly, trying to align facts, trying to make _sense_ of it all. He did not think he could, but he had to try. “Did anyone see anything?”

 

“I wasn’t there, so I don’t know. Wilfred came by this noon, that’s the only reason why I am awake in the first place.” Crawford nodded at the shuttered window and the light of the day outside trying to find its way in. “He and George had been to some kind of exhibition down at the museum and were on their way back to their house when they heard the news on the streets. Wilfred said there wasn’t much left. The entire shop must have been completely destroyed.”

 

“God damn it all!” He cradled his face in his hands and withstood the desire to scream in frustration. “Then we can’t ask Theodore anymore. Farfarello is going to turn the entire city upside down, looking for that third Vampire!”

 

What was worse, even if Schuldig told Farfarello that Theodore was dead, he probably would not believe that Theodore had been that Vampire he was looking for.

 

What if Farfarello had figured out on his own that it was Theodore, and had had him killed while spending those two days at the house in Mayfair with Schuldig? The Vampire had not seen a single Felidae during that time. The scene earlier today...Farfarello’s anger had been more than real, but Schuldig knew, thought...

 

Knew nothing.

 

He pushed Crawford’s hands off his shoulders and screamed, then, all the frustration, all the unanswered questions rising from the depths of his mind, needing an outlet. His scream was loud enough to hurt his own ears. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, wanting to have something to rip apart, tear into. It was not enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted something to vent his frustration on.

 

“Schuldig, I think you’re investing too much...too much of yourself into this,” Crawford had retreated to the door and now stood there with a look of trepidation on his face, as though he expected him to explode any moment. “You’re making a fool of yourself, nothing more.”

 

“No! I need to know!”

 

“Why?” Crawford shrugged, the helpless gesture of one at the ends of their wit. “Why do you need to know? What happens is something personal between the Felidae and whoever they are looking for. It’s none of _your_ business.”

 

Vehemently, Schuldig shook his head, hair flying. “It is. As Elder of the city, it’s -”

 

“- not your business, Schu,” Crawford said gently. “Remember that I am Elder, too, by rights of being your companion, and don’t think I didn’t pay attention to what is going on. It would be our business if they attacked all of us. They’re not. They, or rather Farfarello is looking for someone to settle an old score with. This has nothing to do with us, and you know it.”

 

He knew on some level that Crawford was right, that it was indeed not their business as Elders, and that it was his own damned curiosity that drove him to everything. That, and his interest in Farfarello. This had gone past the stage of mere curiosity. He gave a damn about what happened to the rest of the Felidae, he would not care if they all killed themselves over trying to find that third Vampire if they had not already, but Farfarello -

 

He had a very dangerous, very absurd idea and stilled, staring at the floor before his feet. It took shape in his head before he had a chance to stop it. So easy. It would be so easy to...

 

“I don’t like that look on your face, Schu,” Crawford said, in that tone of voice that let Schuldig know that his companion _knew_ he was up to something. He looked at him, saw Crawford’s eyes widen, saw him beginning to shake his head just as vehemently as he had before. “You’re out of your mind. I know exactly what you’re thinking about, and I tell you it’s a bad idea.”

 

“As is sitting here, doing nothing. When I came to the house Farfarello was right in the middle of fighting for his post as leader. He had been _challenged_ , Crawford.” Schuldig rose from the bed, licked his lips. The more he thought about it, the easier a solution it seemed to be. It would take care of everything. “Something needs to be done before there’ll be more corpses on both sides, before it really turns into a war!”

 

“But not this!” Crawford shouted, slamming his fist against the door jamb. The resulting crash and splintering of wood startled them both. Breathing hard, Crawford went on, “You’re so in love with that Felidae you’re not thinking straight anymore! You’ve had nothing on your mind but him for so long, the others are already calling you catlover! Don’t you see? This isn’t about us! This isn’t about them! This is about you and Farfarello!”

 

He had nothing to say to this, mouth hanging open at Crawford’s sharp words. They had their clashes - anyone living in close quarters for so long now was bound to fight over something sooner or later - but never before it had been about something as personal as one’s...lovers? Schuldig narrowed his eyes, experiencing the same feeling of misgiving he had picked up the last time he spoke to Theodore, now coming from Crawford. It was sobering. It hurt. He gave Crawford a cold stare, brows lowering.

 

“Schuldig,” Crawford’s tone of voice was now beseeching as he rubbed his hands over his face, sighing through his fingers, “Please don’t think I don’t _want_ you to have him. I don’t care what the others say about you and him, and you know it. I’m just concerned that you’re going to lose yourself completely if this goes on for much longer.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Look at you! When was the last time you’ve fed? When was the last time you’ve had a good sleep? You’re so far gone all you think about is solving this cursed mystery!”

 

“You’re not my father, Crawford.”

 

“No, I’m not. I’m your friend, your _companion_ if you’ve forgotten, and I worry about you.” Stepping closer, Crawford took him by the shoulders once more, ignoring the way Schuldig stiffened at the contact. “If he were anyone else but a Felidae I’d even help you Turn him. Hell, I’d ring the wedding bells. But he isn’t. He’s from a different Breed. He’s the gods be damned leader of a clan. What do you think will happen if you Turn him?”

 

Schuldig did not want to listen to this. He tried to shake Crawford’s hands off, but the other held fast, refusing to let go, “No, listen to me, Schu. If you Turn him they’ll elect a new leader. I don’t know much about the Felidae but what I _do_ know is not to my liking. If all goes wrong they’ll try to hunt _him_ down in the end, and I can just imagine how he’ll thank you for that.”

 

“Then what do you propose we do?” Shrugging, Schuldig turned from Crawford, wrenching away as Crawford’s hands refused to let go. He walked over to the window and stared through the gaps in the shutters, torn. He knew Crawford was right. He did not know what frustrated him more - that Crawford was right, or that he had no other options. Turning Farfarello would separate him from his clan; he would not be bound to them by anything anymore. The way they lived would probably result in their shunning their former leader completely. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve tried. I’ve tried to find out, to get closer, and I can’t. He won’t let me. If he were a Vampire at least there’d be no...”

 

“...barriers between you anymore?” Crawford’s presence at his back was comforting despite their dispute; he leaned back against the other’s chest, sighed, and closed his eyes as he felt his companion’s chin come to rest on his shoulder. They had known each other for too long for Schuldig to not take advantage of offered comfort. “Schu, tell me why you wanted to talk to Theodore?”

 

“I thought he was the third.” Still staring at the gaps in the shutters, Schuldig let his eyes fall shut until the world turned into a fuzzy veil of grey around him. It reflected how he felt inside. He was tired. He was hungry. He felt too many warring emotions trying to yank him into too many different directions, and none of them seemed promising. “With all that Theodore told us, I thought he was trying to hide his own past, make us concentrate on William instead of him.”

 

“William and Theodore are both dead, Schu,” Crawford said softly, tightening his arms around him. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Whether or not Farfarello killed him or if someone else did...who cares? They’re dead.”

 

_Dead is dead._

 

“I want to know if Farfarello killed Theodore or not,” Schuldig insisted. “I want to know if this damn thing is finally over and done with.”

 

“So you can commence courting Farfarello without having to worry about anything else?” Crawford’s voice, soft and soothing, was a caress against the skin of Schuldig’s neck. His arms tightened a little more around him, just a breath away from being tight enough to hurt.

 

Schuldig felt drowsy and comfortable in the circle of his companion’s arms. The world ticked past his consciousness, thoughts racing, but Crawford’s presence stifled their urgent press against his mind. Even with Farfarello, Schuldig did not feel the same peace - if anything, Farfarello’s presence made for headaches and wants, but never for peace. If Crawford was home then Farfarello was the wilderness, the unknown territory begging to be explored.

 

“Let me put your mind to rest,” Crawford said, mouth and nose pressed against the side of Schuldig’s neck. He rubbed his lips over the soft skin there, apparently mindless of the fact that Schuldig still reeked of cat, of sex, of Farfarello, and lifted a hand to brush the hair from his ear. “Farfarello did not kill Theodore.”

 

Turning his head, Schuldig looked at the side of Crawford’s face, seeing the elegant line of an eyebrow, the dark sweeping curve of eyelashes against the mound of Crawford’s cheek. “How do you know?”

 

“Because I did it.”

 

He felt Crawford’s hand against the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair. The last thing Schuldig was aware of was the shuttered window in front of him, then pain, then blessed darkness.

 

Then nothing.

 

\---

 

Hands roughly trailed over his body, prodding him. Through the remaining shreds of darkness that clung to his mind like thick cobwebs, Schuldig heard a voice calling his name, but his lips refused to move, and there seemed to be something around his body, holding him down. At first he thought he felt arms around his chest and legs, but as he began to move he realized that they were not arms but belts.

 

Someone slipped a hand beneath his head, lifting it. He groaned loudly as a stab of pain shot from his brow down into his toes, spreading out along his spine like poison ivy. He opened his eyes, bright light from close by forcing its way past his lashes into the very depths of his brain, burning his nerves. Everything hurt. He felt some of the restraints around his body loosen and lifted a hand as soon as it was free, shielding his eyes from the light.

 

“Schuldig? Wake up!”

 

The hurried quality of the familiar voice roused him completely. Through a bloody haze he saw George’s face very close to his own, and behind him he saw the fuzzy outline of another one. Probably Wilfred. The last of the straps were removed. George lifted him into a sitting position, one arm supporting his back, and carefully mopped his face with a wet cloth. Schuldig blinked furiously - the red haze obscuring his sight was blood - and saw the fuzzy outline behind George materialize into Wilfred. Thankfully, they had removed the source of the bright light - a lamp, he saw, held in Wilfred’s hand - from his direct view, sparing him another stab of pain.

 

Weakness kept him from moving on his own as he was lifted from the bed and put on his feet, George still keeping an arm around him. The other Vampire was speaking rapidly, telling him something about Crawford, about madness, that they had to hurry -

 

Why was he so weak? Why was he so _hungry_?

 

Lifting a hand once more, Schuldig gingerly touched his brow, dimly remembering that he had hit the shuttered window. Pain lanced him as his fingertips trailed over a swollen bruise above his eyebrow. He tried to take a step away from George and would have hit the floor had strong arms not caught him once more.

 

“Sweet heavens, he drained him!” Wilfred’s hushed voice said close to his ear. He blinked as fingers touched his throat. How much time had passed? He batted Wilfred’s hands away and felt the puncture wounds himself, shuddering at the thought of teeth there, in his skin, sucking the blood out of him. Crawford would never do that to him. “George, sit him down. He’s going to faint if you keep him upright.”

 

He let them manoeuvre him around and leaned his head against the wall as they put him on a chair somewhere in the apartment. His mind was in pieces, refusing to let him take hold of a single, clear thought. “What happened?” Even his voice sounded weak and distant to his ears.

 

“That’s what I would like to know!” George’s words came like cannonballs, booming through the room. The Vampire was agitated and kept touching Schuldig, lifting a hand, turning it over. “Crawford comes into the Bear and tells us to take a look at you and we find you here, all strapped down like a madman in the asylum, and -”

 

“George, shut up.” Wilfred again, his voice more distant now. Schuldig heard something scrape over the floor and forced his eyes to focus past George’s shoulder. Wilfred was pulling something from one of the windows - they were in the living room - and threw it on the floor. A wooden board. Someone had boarded up the windows from the inside. Blinking, Schuldig gazed at the destroyed furniture around him. It seemed that all their tables had been taken apart, their legs scattered over the floor. “We need to get him someone to feed on. Everything else later.”

 

“Can you stand?” George asked, once more obscuring Schuldig’s view as he bent over him. “You have to come outside with us. Dragging someone up here is too dangerous.”

 

“Crawford...where is he?” Cradling his head in both hands, Schuldig leaned forward, cringing as a board hit the floor with a particularly loud sound. His injuries, his hunger - they made him even more aware of things preternatural senses already picked up easily. “He shoved me face first into the window. I don’t remember anything else.”

 

“Crawford’s gone crazy,” Wilfred said darkly. “Told us he’s gone a-hunting.”

 

Hunting? “Crawford told me he killed Theodore...”

 

The acid silence following his words made him think of nothing good. He forced his eyes open past the pain and saw the other two staring at him, their expressions frozen. Wilfred threw the last board down onto the ground and cursed under his breath.

 

He tried to make sense of everything and failed once more, his thoughts scattering as soon as he tried to concentrate. Why had Crawford shoved him into the window and strapped him down? Why had he killed Theodore?

 

“Schuldig, we need to get going,” George said urgently. “You need blood. Leave the hunting to me and Fred, we’ll take care of that. God! What is going on here?”

 

He thought he knew, and the more he thought about it the more it made sense. He just was not sure if he wanted to believe it. He let George help him stand up and leaned heavily on the other as they stumbled down the stairs, the fresh night air a slap to Schuldig’s senses. By the time they reached the street he was so hungry, so desperately weak, that even George’s physical closeness was tantalizing. Paying no attention to where they were going, he waited, leaned against a dank, crumbling brick wall, until George and Wilfred returned to him, dragging a wildly struggling man between them.

 

The man stank of urine and sweat - a homeless, a drifter - but he was past the point of giving a damn. He crushed his throat in both his hands as he drained him, drinking so quickly and hungrily that he felt sick and had to sit down again when he was done. Yet the blood rejuvenated him, chasing away the hunger and some of the pain. He was left with a raging headache radiating from the bruise on his brow and a fainter, more delicate ache sitting in the side of his throat, where Crawford had drained him according to George and Wilfred.

 

They had dragged him into a narrow street leading from Shaftesbury Avenue to the Strand. The houses stood so close on either side that he thought their roofs were touching as he looked up, trying to find his bearings. With the feeding, most of his senses returned to him. It was cold. A fine spray of rain made his hair cling to his face and shoulders, soaking through his shirt and pants. He still felt weak.

 

“I need more,” Schuldig said, rising to his feet. He had to hold onto the wall behind him to keep his balance. “One more. Then find Crawford. Oh _god_.”

 

Thankfully, George and Wilfred asked no questions. They just gave him haunted glances as they led him out of the narrow street, finding a quick way down to the Embankment. There was no time to search out the more illicit parts of London - what time was it? Early night? Early morning? The darkly grey sky could have been any time’s companion - but he was willing to take any risk. There were more important things to worry about now.

 

Sheer luck led a rough-looking, dirty young man directly into their arms as they reached the Embankment. Schuldig drained this one as quickly as the first and threw the corpse into the Thames, feeling a dark, deep sting of irony as he watched the lifeless body drift a few feet before it sank beneath the unruly waters. Where would this one washed onto the banks of the river?

 

“I would like to know what’s going on,” Wilfred announced as Schuldig turned from the railing, feeling stronger, better now. “Everything’s gone utterly crazy since those cats arrived in London and now Crawford loses it?”

 

“I don’t have time to explain,” Schuldig said, turning into the direction of Mayfair. He had to warn Farfarello - or find Crawford, whichever came first. “Thanks for your help. But I can’t stay to explain now.”

 

“Then we’re coming with you,” George said behind him. “Whatever’s going on, I got the feeling it’s bound to get more interesting, and I’ve never been one to miss a party.”

 

He knew he could not get rid of them and mentally shrugged as they fell into a run next to him. There was no use in telling them that they were putting themselves into danger - they probably had gotten _that_ gist as they found him strapped to the bed at Shaftesbury Avenue, if not already by the time Crawford told them to go looking for him. He was glad to have them by his side, though he hoped not to have to make use of their help.

 

He had no idea what was going to happen, what he would find. He hoped to find Crawford first, to stop him, talk to him - find out what was going on in that head of his. He did not doubt what his companion had told him. Crawford had no reason to make up something like this.

 

What he did not want to even contemplate for one second were the possibilities that came along with all those non-reasons.

 

With Crawford admitting to killing Theodore, there was nothing that stood between him and the assumption that he had killed Christine as well. Schuldig remembered the scene in their bathroom all too clearly: Farfarello on the floor between them, Crawford at the door, talking about how he had talked to Christine just hours before Schuldig was led to her corpse.

 

He had been so blind.

 

Farfarello had always insisted that neither he nor any of his kin had killed Christine. With what was beginning to form in his head - nothing concrete, just a subtle, dancing theory - Schuldig had no valuable arguments left that spoke against it.

 

But why? Why?

 

He gritted his teeth and doubled his speed, the houses and wet streets streaking past him as they flew along the Embankment and turned back onto the streets leading away from the river, toward Mayfair. George’s and Wilfred’s presences at his sides were but shadows to his awareness. They asked no questions, for which he was glad. Schuldig doubted they would believe the answers he could give them. He did not even know if he could believe it himself.

 

They reached Mayfair’s edge as Big Ben’s dull bells announced the eleventh hour of the night. The deceptive silence that greeted them put Schuldig’s teeth on edge; it was the calm before the storm, the tranquillity hiding the outbreak of the war. He bade Wilfred and George silence, an order they heeded without questions. They clung to his sides, watchful, tense shadows. Schuldig figured that he had lain unconscious and tied down on the bed for at least five hours - that gave Crawford a lot of time for whatever he planned.

 

With what had happened to Theodore in the back of his mind, Schuldig had a good idea of what Crawford was going to do. His stomach tightened as the saw the orange glow of fire over the rooftops.

 

“What is he doing?” George muttered under his breath, his tone of voice sounding incredulous.

 

“He’s burning them out,” Schuldig said tonelessly.

 

Without another word, he pressed on, leaving the other two to follow. It was just a matter of time before the mortals saw the fire, before someone alarmed the authorities. Then all hell would break loose.

 

He heard them before he saw the house, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. George and Wilfred heard them as well - they stopped, looking around wildly, their teeth bared - as did some of the mortals. Windows were opened behind them as Schuldig turned the last corner and beheld the burning house. Someone shouted, a high-pitched alarm shattering the silence completely.

 

“Fire! Fire!”

 

The shout started a chain reaction of opening windows and doors. More voices were added until it seemed that all of Mayfair was waking up; the mortals sprang from their beds, ran into the streets. Somewhere close by, someone was ringing an alarm bell, the clear, bright sound quickly drowning in the onslaught of voices, footsteps, and the roar of the fire.

 

Despite the recent rains and cold nights, the tall house burned like a cinder. Several of the windows had been shattered, the front door stood open, swinging gently in the roar of the flames as they licked at the wood. The acidic stench of lamp oil mixed with the smell of burning wood, carpet and fur. The heat made it impossible to get closer, but even from afar Schuldig saw the twisted, scorched shapes lying on the doorstep and the stairs in front of it, saw them fall from the open windows and press against the glass behind others. He heard their voices, both physical and telepathic, screaming for help, for someone to quench the fire and save the young ones.

 

In the end it was all he could hear, that choir of burning cats. He was dimly aware of George collapsing to his knees, hands pressed over his ears; Schuldig knew the voices of the catkin, had heard them often enough now, and listened for a single one in the cacophony; listened even as blood ran from his nose and his mind felt as though it was being torn in two. He stepped as close to the flames as he dared, mindless of the heat and the blisters that burst on the skin of his face and his arms.

 

Someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him back, shouting into his ear, adding to the noise. A mortal, a young man clad in a nightgown, slippers on his feet.

 

“Are you mad? Stay away from the house!”

 

Schuldig turned and saw a tight ring of mortals behind him, some with buckets in their hands. They were shouting, fear and terror emitting from their very skin like a sickening perfume. He wrenched away from the young man, ignored the shriek of terror as he bared his teeth in a growl, and turned back to the house.

 

“Farfarello!”

 

His voice boomed, carrying over the roar of the fire, the shouts of the mortals. For one perfect second, breathtaking silence followed his shout, for one perfect second even the dying Felidae inside the house seemed to listen to him, hear him, and recognize him. There were less and less of their voices. He opened his mind to them, asked them, but received only a terrified babble and a plea for help, a plea to save them, their kittens, put out the fire, take away the pain...why could they not get out? Why had they not smelled the fire, sensed Crawford’s presence, just as they had sensed Schuldig’s so often now?

 

He was grabbed once more, wrenched from his place. Wilfred yanked him back, shouting at him, “That way lies death!”

 

Farfarello was not inside the house, or he was already dead. He knew that much - he was certain Farfarello would have answered him. He let himself be pulled away, realizing how close he had come to the fire only as Wilfred forcefully pushed him through a narrow gap between two houses and the sudden cold against his blistered, heated skin made him gasp. George joined them, still clasping his hands over his ears and moaning, blood running from his nose as well.

 

“Their voices,” he gasped, “Oh god! Their voices!”

 

Wilfred gripped Schuldig’s arm so hard he moaned in pain and heard the bone creak. “Silence!” he hissed, and pointed up. “There!”

 

They followed his pointed finger and saw the shadows of the cats at the edges of the roofs above them, sitting as still as statues. None of them paid any attention to the Vampires, their heads turned toward the shine of the fire. Schuldig pushed Wilfred’s hand off and searched for a way to climb up to them. They would know if Farfarello was still alive.

 

He knew that if Farfarello was still alive, that was where Crawford would be as well.

 

“What are you doing?” George, wiping blood from his mouth and chin, bumped into him. “We have to find Crawford! What if he burned in there?”

 

“I have to find Farfarello!” Frantically, Schuldig looked for a way to climb up the wall, fingers scrabbling at the bricks to find purchase there. He was distracted briefly as the sound of horseshoes on cobblestone broke through the shouts of the mortals that had risen anew; the alarm bells of London’s fire fighters announced the late arrival of help. “Damn it!”

 

“If they put out the fire and find all those dead cats...” Wilfred shook his head, eyes narrowed. “There’ll be an uproar its likes London hasn’t seen before.”

 

“That’s not important!” Schuldig turned to the two others, wildly gesticulating upward. “I have to get up there _now_!” He looked up and saw that none of the Felidae had moved from their spot. “Help me!”

 

They ran around the house and straight into a young woman and two children who had retreated into the garden to be shielded from the heat. The young woman began to scream at their sight. Schuldig ignored her and the crying children - he finally found what he was looking for and began to climb up the rose lattice let into the wall around the backdoor of the house. George and Wilfred would take care of the mortals.

 

He did not care if anyone saw him, anyway.

 

The shouts of the mortals, mingling with the whinnying of the horses, got louder and louder and gained a new level of excitement. Schuldig knew the fire fighters would not bother to try to put the flames out - they would try to keep the fire from spreading over onto the neighbouring houses. Heat greeted him again as he reached the steep roof and nearly slipped off, catching himself at the last second. The injured skin of his face and hands swelled once more as the blisters he had gained just moments ago erupted and sent streams of liquid oozing down into his clothing.

 

If the Felidae sitting at the edge of the roof saw him, they gave no notice. Finally finding purchase on the slippery shingles, he gasped as he made it to the roof’s first and looked over it. The flames were already licking at the houses around the burning one. Men in uniforms were carrying buckets of water as close to the fire as they could. There was nothing left to salvage. Whatever Crawford had used, whatever he had done, he had done a complete job of setting fire to the house. The Felidae had most likely been gathered in the cellar. Perhaps some of them had gotten away. He did not know.

 

He did not care. Holding onto the shingles, nearly crouched on all fours, Schuldig made his way over to one of the silently watching Felidae, blocking its view of the burning house.

 

“Where is Farfarello?”

 

The catkin turned its head and blinked at him. There were tear tracks in the fur of its face. It gave no answer, no discernible reaction, other than another blinking of its eyes, and started to move around him to get its view back. Schuldig grabbed it around the neck and shook it brutally.

 

“Damn you, answer me! Where is he?”

 

A heavy weight crashed into his back, pushing him off balance and over the edge of the roof. He heard the loud yowl of the catkin he was holding and flipped his body around in midair, feeling fingernails dig into his back and neck. Flinging his arm out, he let go of the Felidae before the impact on the ground pushed the air from his lungs and dazed him. His fall was cushioned by the body clinging to his back. He started to roll over as soon as he regained control over his limbs, coughing, blood running from a bitten lip. There was so much pain now that he could not even distinguish single sources anymore; his entire body felt like on big, throbbing bruise. The first thing he saw was the curled body of the catkin he had taken over the edge of the roof with his fall; lying on its back, a slowly spreading pool of blood around it, he blinked as he saw it take a last breath and die.

 

He rolled once more and staggered to his feet. Pain so bright it was like the touch of a hot iron shot from his left shoulder down into the rest of his body, threatening to throw him into unconsciousness. He leaned against the wall and breathed, gingerly touching his shoulder. Broken or dislocated.

 

George and Wilfred ran up to him. He ignored their agitated questions and looked at the one who had pushed him over the edge of the roof, recognizing Sara. She lay on her back, arms and legs spread from her body, her eyes wide open as she stared up. He looked up as well, but none of the other Felidae seemed to take notice of her fate, or of the one Schuldig had flung into death.

 

Her mouth was moving. He stumbled over to hear and kneeled down at her side, every jostle to his injured shoulder sending waves of pain straight to his spine. “Sara. Where is Farfarello?”

 

Her eyes shifted, flicking from whatever she had been looking for above her to him. She blinked, and as she spoke bright red blood bubbled out of the corners of her mouth. “Rot...in...hell...”

 

“Tell me where he is! Please!”

 

Her mouth moved, but all that came out was more blood.

 

“Schu, she’s dying, leave her alone.” Wilfred appeared on Sara’s other side, giving her a critical look. “Broken back or something.”

 

“Shut up!” Setting his hands on either side of her head, Schuldig leaned over the Felidae, staring into eyes that were quickly becoming sightless. She might not be able to speak anymore, but... _Where is he? Where is your leader?_

 

In the orange-black light of the night and the fire, the Felidae’s pupils were constantly shrinking and widening. Schuldig pushed the question at her mind over and over again, desperation eating away at him. Finally, Sara seemed to come to her senses for one last time. The telepathic answer was so faint that Schuldig almost did not hear it.

 

_Park._

 

He nodded at her, clasping her face between his hands. _Is there a Vampire with him?_

 

_Yes._

 

 _Thank you._ He felt her pain, pressing through her words against his mind, and broke her neck with a sharp jerk of hands, the abrupt loss of the telepathic connection adding mental to physical pain. It was enough to drop him straight back to his knees as he tried to get up.

 

“Schu...” Wilfred’s voice had an edge of fear as he helped him stand. “You’re going to kill yourself at this rate.”

 

“I have to get to the park.” Leaning heavily on him, Schuldig squinted, dizziness turning the world into a chaotic whirl of colours. “Where’s George?”

 

“Taking care of the woman and those two children.”

 

“Help me. The park - Crawford is there. With Farfarello.”

 

Wilfred’s expression darkened at his words, the Vampire’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Finally, he nodded, slinging an arm around Schuldig’s waist to help him walk. They staggered out of the small street, ignored by the mortals whose efforts were now concentrated on keeping the fire from spreading, just as Schuldig had predicted it. He glanced back over his shoulder as they rounded the corner and saw the roof of the Felidae’s house collapse. The loud groan of wood was met by several small explosions from within the burning ruins. Schuldig winced as the last dying voices of the trapped Felidae were cut off abruptly.

 

Farfarello would go insane over this loss. There was no way the leader of the Felidae would ever overcome the killing of what had to be almost his entire clan. Schuldig kept looking back over his shoulder for as long as he could and tried to find the Felidae that had been sitting on the roofs of the surrounding houses, but they were gone. There was no telling if they had followed their brothers and sisters into the flames, or if they were on their way to the park as well now that there was nothing left to salvage, to pay _homage_ to at the house.

 

With Wilfred’s help, Schuldig quickly reached the edge of Green Park. Thankful for the silence and the considerably cooler air beneath the trees, he stopped for a moment and let the other dab at his face with a handkerchief. His skin felt scorched. Wilfred was deliberately trying not to look at his eyes while he mopped some of the liquid off Schuldig’s throat and chin, but he knew that he had to look horrible.

 

“It’ll heal,” Wilfred said with a forced smile. “A little fire like that won’t do any lasting damage.”

 

Schuldig put a hand on Wilfred’s shoulder, “Thank you. Now help me find Farfarello and Crawford.”

 

“That’ll be easy,” With a jerk of his head, Wilfred pointed down the gravel path they stood on. “All we have to do is follow the shine of _that_ fire, methinks.”

 

Schuldig looked and saw the orange glow between the far trees, flickering and dancing, taunting him like a will-o’-the-wisp that threatened to vanish just as its unlucky victim steps into the bog. The thought of what Farfarello was going to _do_ to Crawford...

 

But did he not deserve it? Had Crawford not killed Theodore, Christine, and just now killed enough of the Felidae to have it account almost for genocide? Still, the thought of having his long-time companion burned to a smoking skeleton made Schuldig’s stomach curl and twist with uneasiness. He wanted to at least _know_ why Crawford had done it. Everything else was out of his hands. Elder he might be, but not even Crawford’s status as London’s Elder would save him from the rightful wrath of the Felidae’s clan leader.

 

Still...

 

“Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered under his breath as he and Wilfred hurried along the gravel path, “Doesn’t make any god damn sense...”

 

“Nothing does,” Wilfred said dryly. “When this is over I’m going to take a long holiday. You look like you could use one as well. Do they allow cats on those large steamers that’re crossing the oceans now?”

 

Schuldig had to grin despite it all. As always, Wilfred still found something amusing to say.

 

Hangman’s humour had a lot going for it, in the right situations.

 

\---

 

As they neared the end of the gravel path that led into the very heart of Green Park, Schuldig heard the sharp ring of alarm bells coming from the direction of Buckingham Palace. It made him aware of the time - or rather, the lack of time they were facing, as it would only be a matter of the thing they lacked to have mortals crawling all over Green Park, looking for the source of the fire that was now beginning to eat at the majestic oaks and poplar trees.

 

There was an amazing number of dead Felidae on the path. Curled and twisted, some of them torn in half, some of them with scorched fur, they looked like morbid signposts. There were none of the rugged miniature lions among the corpses. Schuldig wondered if all of Farfarello’s guards had died in the house. Or where they with their leader, fighting Crawford?

 

Crawford would not stand a chance against both Farfarello’s fire and the guards.

 

“If there’s going to be a fight, what am I supposed to do?” Wilfred asked, head inclined to listen to gasps, screams and shouts Schuldig had been hearing for a good two minutes now. “Intervene?”

 

“No. Leave that to me. I don’t want you in any more danger than you already are.” Schuldig pulled away from him, testing his balance. “Go back and find George. Then come back here to...pick up the pieces.” He gave a small, helpless smile. “Whatever happens, don’t get mixed up in it.”

 

They were close now. Through the trees, Schuldig saw movement, bodies both small and tall flitting around and through the flames. There was no sign of Crawford or Farfarello but he knew that he had to go on. Leaving a very sceptic-looking Wilfred standing in the middle of the path, he pressed on, again feeling the heat dance over his already hurt skin as he strode off the path and walked between the trees. Expecting an attack from every side, he was surprised to get as close as the edge of a small clearing before anyone noticed him at all; the injured Felidae tending to another one lying on his back beneath a tree, blood bubbling from a large gap in his stomach, gave Schuldig a curt glance before he dismissed the Vampire from his attention.

 

Perhaps, as Farfarello’s lover - toy, his mind cynically added - he had gained a status that ensured him safe passage among the Felidae.

 

Injured Felidae were scattered all over the clearing, some of them already dead. He finally saw the rugged guards he had missed among the dead on the path; they lay heavily bleeding, either tended to by others who still had the strength to move or staring up at the crowns of the trees, awaiting their death. Schuldig heard nothing from them, neither telepathic nor physical voices called out to him.

 

A ball of fire impacted with a tree on the other side of the clearing, setting it afire so quickly Schuldig heard the moisture in the tree’s bark explode with several loud bangs. He quickly located the source of the fire and felt his heart leap with relief as he saw Farfarello - half-naked, grimy, the leader of the Felidae stood between two of his guards, his hands raised above his head, fingers bent to claws. The guards by his sides stood attentively, shoulders hunched, ready to attack at a word of their leader.

 

Crawford stood with his back to Schuldig. There was a small spring fountain in the middle of the clearing, its former white marble covered in black grime from Farfarello’s earlier fire attacks. Crawford leaned heavily against the fountain, arms out of Schuldig’s sight. The Vampire’s clothes were in rags. His back was covered in bloody scratches, and some of the hair at the back of his head was missing.

 

He dared not interrupt them. An aura of stifling tenseness lay over the four as they faced off. Schuldig wondered why Farfarello was holding back - Crawford did not seem to have any weapons, nor had he any powers Schuldig was aware of. Cautiously, he moved forward, trying to remain unnoticed.

 

They did not move. Schuldig walked in a wide circle around them until he could see the side of Crawford’s face and stood closer to Farfarello than his companion; he saw it then, the small, dirty bundle of fur Crawford held pressed against his chest. It was the kitten Schuldig had seen twice now and held himself. Crawford was using it as a shield against Farfarello’s attacks. Blind anger at his companion’s sudden display of cowardice made Schuldig grit his teeth to keep himself from shouting. He had never known Crawford to be so _vile_ that he would use a child to protect himself.

 

There were a lot of things he had not known about Crawford, it seemed. He did not recognize the gentle, comforting and _steady_ companion he had known for so long in the dirty, hateful creature that stood next to the spring fountain, eyes ablaze, teeth bared.

 

“Thought I’d come unprepared?” Crawford spat, his voice barely above a growl. He took no notice of Schuldig even as the Vampire slowly, carefully crept closer. “Thought I’d _forget_?”

 

Farfarello did not take his eyes off Crawford for one second. Eyes...Schuldig winced. He could not keep his stomach from turning as he took in the ruin of Farfarello’s left eye. The skin around the eye socket was discoloured, split over the orbital bone and above his eyebrow. The upper eyelid was drooping, covering what had to be a missing or squashed eye beneath. The orange glow of the fire around them had concealed the blood on the entire left side of the Felidae’s face, but now that Schuldig crept closer he saw the blood drip off Farfarello’s chin and meander down his chest, around and through new, bleeding wounds.

 

There was an expression of utter hate on Farfarello’s face as he said, “You’re going to die here, _bastard_.”

 

“Die?” Crawford threw his head back and laughed. One of his hands twisted, doing something to the kitten that resulted in a loud, painful yowl from the small thing. The guards moved forward, growling in their throat, but a sharp command from Farfarello made them retreat, their eyes ablaze. “Will you risk the life of your child to get your revenge?”

 

 _The life of your child._ Schuldig closed his eyes for a second, swallowed dryly, and when he opened them again he turned to Crawford, calling out to his companion, “Crawford!”

 

“Get away from here,” Crawford said. He did not even look at the other Vampire. “That’s my business.”

 

“It’s mine, too.” He walked forward, slowly, stopping only as his companion hissed at him, doing something that made the kitten yowl once more. “If you kill that kitten now not even the others will stand by you anymore.”

 

“They won’t have to,” Farfarello said, “He’s not going to leave here alive. Go away, Schuldig. That’s between him and me.”

 

“In a few minutes this place will be crawling with mortals.” Reason, maybe they would listen to that. There were few things the Dark Breeds paid attention to as far as the mortal world was concerned, but the danger of detection was one of them. That house full of dead cats would already raise suspicion. Finding a park full of dead cats, dead _human_ cats and a dead Vampire... “Your stint at the house alerted all of Mayfair and fire fighters from all over the city, Crawford. Don’t risk your, all _our_ safety!”

 

“Look at _you_ now being the voice of reason!” Crawford’s voice shattered, turned into an ugly, beastly screech. He grabbed the kitten with both hands, shaking it viciously. This time, even Farfarello moved forward a step, mouth falling open in a wordless, sharp protest. “You weren’t there! You don’t know how it was! I hate them! _You have no idea what I’ve gone through!_ ”

 

The guards at Farfarello’s sides moved again, but this time toward Schuldig. Farfarello must have given them the order to take him away, or kill him, or take him hostage - the situation was quickly escalating, and the more he thought about it the more he was convinced that it _had_ to end in bloodshed. Someone _had_ to die.

 

He had that idea again. It was a chance.

 

Knowing it was possibly the only chance he had, safe killing Crawford himself, Schuldig sprinted forward and slipped between the guards just before they reached him, their grasping hands catching air as they grabbed for him. Crawford’s surprised shout was only marginally louder than Farfarello’s, both voices mingling into one long, distorted sound as Schuldig passed the distance between him and the leader of the Felidae in a heartbeat and collided with Farfarello.

 

There was a split second of fear as Farfarello’s hands slammed against his chest in a futile attempt to ward him off. Using his fire now, Farfarello would probably kill them both. The thought came and went. Winding his fingers into the hair at the back of Farfarello’s head, his other arm trapping Farfarello against his body, Schuldig crammed his head in between the Felidae’s chin and throat, tasting sweat, blood and spices as he opened his mouth. Hands slammed into his back, fingernails digging through clothing and skin down to what felt like his very bones. The guards had reached them.

 

He pushed forward, toppled them over, and then Farfarello’s heartbeat echoed down into his veins as he ripped into his throat and opened the carotid vein, the first gush of frantically pumping blood a shock to his system. Awareness of his own aches and fatigue faded the more he drank, becoming aware of Farfarello’s; that pain beyond classification, radiating from the ruin of his left eye, the lightning flashes down his chest and back - anger, pain, fear and fury, he drank it all down.

 

Dimly, Schuldig heard shouts and screams and the fearful yowl of a kitten. The hands retreated as he growled, sending the guards a mental picture of what would happen if they yanked him off their leader now; the picture of Farfarello with his throat ripped out shocked them, confused them. They backed off. Schuldig saw it through Farfarello’s remaining eye as though the blood flow between them had opened a direct route into the Felidae’s head. He saw Crawford at the edge of Farfarello’s vision, distorted, elongated, like a monster in a cabinet of mirrors.

 

The spicy blood went straight to his head like it had the first time, with the difference that there was nothing sexual or even remotely intimate about it now. The mortals had it all wrong. There was nothing mystic or romantic about the Turning. Schuldig drank until Farfarello became a motionless weight in his arms. He heard his heartbeat fade and taper away, listening intently to the echoes inside of him until he knew the point had been reached. Schuldig had never created a Vampire - there had never been the need, and certainly never the urge - but he instinctually knew when to stop and rip his wrist open.

 

There was one long, agonizingly silent moment when he pressed his bleeding wrist to Farfarello’s slack mouth. Nothing happened. Sick from too much blood, too much pain, too much everything, Schuldig pressed his arm down harder and flexed his muscles, silently praying to whatever god cared for Farfarello to respond.

 

He almost did not feel it when it finally happened. Someone kneeled at his side, whispering to him. He could not bring himself to look away from the ashen face so close to his, the remaining eye flickering restlessly behind the thin skin of its lid. Lips fastened to his wrist. Schuldig sighed with relief and queasiness at the same time as Farfarello began to drink their now mixed blood.

 

Farfarello’s eye fixed on him with burning intensity just as Schuldig was beginning to feel weak from the draining. Hypnotized by the amber sea, Schuldig watched with morbid fascination how the slit pupil contracted sharply before it started to become round once more. It never became fully round, remained a pointed oval surrounded by far too bright amber. Farfarello’s lips released his wrist.

 

“God, Schu...what...?”

 

Weakly, he turned his head and stared at the bewildered expression on Wilfred’s face. Behind Wilfred, he saw George, holding a weakly struggling Crawford back against the blackened spring fountain. Schuldig did not protest as Wilfred pulled him to his feet. He staggered, feeling sick to the stomach, sick to the head.

 

The guards stood aghast, staring back and forth between the Vampires and their motionless leader with open mouths. Schuldig stumbled toward them, croaking, “Leave. It’s over.” He glanced at the fallen Felidae at the edge of the clearing. “Take your wounded and dead and leave.”

 

They hesitated, the taller of them even stepping around Schuldig to look at Farfarello once more. He was holding the kitten. Crawford must have released it when Schuldig attacked Farfarello. The small thing was half-dead, blinking lethargically.

 

“Leave London,” Schuldig repeated, seeing his reflection in the Felidae’s eyes. Wild, tangled hair, ashen skin, bloody mouth and poison eyes... “He’s mine now. Vampire.”

 

The Felidae gently shook his head and retreated, “He’s no one’s now.” Giving a sharp nod to the other guard, he turned and looked back over his shoulder. “You’ve killed him.”

 

Schuldig turned from him and shot Crawford a glance. His companion kept struggling, but his movement was weak, lacking conviction. Schuldig had no idea what to do with him.

 

George and Wilfred took that decision out of his hands. “We have to leave,” George said, giving Crawford a sharp push that sent the other Vampire stumbling toward the edge of the clearing. “Get out of here before the mortals come. Everything else comes later.”

 

Crawford kept trying to turn around, but George soon blocked Schuldig’s view of him, herding him on and away. Schuldig did not care if he brought him back to Shaftesbury Avenue or somewhere else. He turned around and gasped as he saw Wilfred bend down over Farfarello, reaching out for the newborn Vampire. “Let him be!”

 

Wilfred looked up at him, steel in his eyes. “Can you carry him?”

 

Farfarello was unconscious. Schuldig kneeled down at his side and tried to lift him onto his arms, but the moment he had his dead weight off the ground his shoulder gave out with a resounding crack. He gasped at the pain and fell back, colours dancing before his eyes.

 

“Told you so,” Wilfred easily lifted Farfarello and slung him over his shoulder. “Come on. George is right. I can hear their alarm bells.”

 

The trip back to Shaftesbury Avenue would forever remain a blur of rain, alarm bells and blinding bursts of pain in Schuldig’s memory. He did not remember the names of the streets through which they slipped, the only lasting picture in his mind Farfarello, face turned sideways against Wilfred’s back, blood dripping from his mouth onto the uneven stones of the street. And even that faded to black as he collapsed onto the floor of their corridor, surrounded by the familiarity of his home that had never felt as alien to him as it did now.

 

*********

**Chapter Four**

*********

 

Two weeks later, the remaining London Vampires met in the Bear at Arms and held council.

 

Schuldig liked to think of it as a jury court.

 

They were all there, his beautiful monsters. Even Christine, William and Theodore sat around a table in the back of the pub, splendid in their crushed velvet, their straight, narrow suits, their predatory smiles. He had to blink twice before their ghosts faded, leaving the table empty.

 

Their faint laughter remained.

 

With the destruction of the “Raven” and Theodore’s death, the Bear at Arms had become the Vampires’ main meeting place in London. Eliza, Theodore’s mate - she called herself Theodore’s widow now, and wore black from head to toe. As though they needed a reminder of what had happened. As though it took a mortal custom to drive the point home - sat by herself at one of the front tables, staring at and through Schuldig.

 

It was the first time he made use of his position as Elder. He wished for any other reason, any different circumstances; and if he truly thought about it he wished it would never have come to this point.

 

But here they were, the monsters and him, and he was one of them.

 

Of all Vampires, only George was missing. He had volunteered to stay at the apartment and guard Farfarello. His absence was noted with varying reactions. As was the creation of their newest member.

 

‘Varying reactions’ was a good way to describe what Schuldig had been faced with all evening long. They ranged from simple disbelief to anger to stark sadness. He looked around the gathered, noted how none of them wanted to meet his eyes, and sighed, “Let’s begin.”

 

To his right, sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, Crawford did not move as Schuldig turned to him. Crawford was dressed impeccably, none of the signs of the fight with the Felidae remaining on his face or clasped hands. He might as well have been sitting in the opera, paying attention to a particularly serious play.

 

“As Elder of London I ban you from the city. Should you ever choose to return to London while I still hold power here, you will be killed. By my hands or by the others. As this is your verdict, so does it hold for all present - Brad Crawford, you have lost your right to stay among us as a member of our city-Coven.” He swallowed, waiting for a reaction. None came, and he went on, “I blame you for the deaths of Christine de Chanel and Theodore Larkin. I blame you for actions that could have led to our detection and possible extinction. What weighs more on the scale of your crimes, I don’t know.”

 

And how different were they now, how did they differ from the Felidae, whose rules Schuldig had thought of as arcane and antiquated? Christine fluttered up to him, smiling, and whispered, _Not at all, Schu. Not at all._

 

“I blame you, finally, for lying to me, thus causing a fight that could have been prevented.”

 

Crawford sneered but remained silent. He had not spoken a word since George and Wilfred had cornered him in the living room at Shaftesbury Avenue and threatened to beat the living hell out of him if he made so much as one antagonistic move toward Farfarello or Schuldig. There was no telling what he was thinking now, how he took the ban - how he took a ban that came from Schuldig, whose companion he had been for longer than Schuldig liked to think about now.

 

He did not like to think about Crawford at all lately, come to think of it. He heard him moving behind his eyes when he slept, a laughing, sneering monster. “The verdict has been spoken. Does anyone object to it?”

 

He looked at the seated Vampires and waited for someone to raise their hand or voice, but no reaction came. Apathy lay over the assembled, threatening to choke the very life out of them all. Schuldig closed his eyes and counted to ten before he turned to Crawford once more.

 

“Your belongings have been sent to a ship waiting at London harbour, course set on America.” At a flick of his finger, Wilfred and another Vampire stepped up to Crawford’s sides, taking a hold of an arm each. “You’ll be brought to the harbour this very hour.”

 

Crawford did not struggle as they tugged him to his feet. His eyes remained fixed on Schuldig’s face, strangely empty of emotion, until the door to the pub closed behind him. Schuldig sighed and shook his head. “This council is over.”

 

\---

 

“Didn’t say a single word,” Wilfred said two hours later, as he and Schuldig were on their way back to Shaftesbury Avenue. “Didn’t say good bye, nothing. I’ve known him for _decades_ , Schu, but I never thought he’d be capable of what he’s done, what he _did_. If I didn’t know it’s Crawford I’d say he’s a complete stranger.”

 

Schuldig was glad to escape the choking atmosphere of the pub and breathed in the fresh night air, now and then expecting to detect the faint tinge of scorched wood, scorched fur. Yet winter had come early this year, October had brought the first snow mixed into the sleet and the rain, and all he smelled were the city’s usual dirt and darkness. The story about the burned house in Mayfair had run its course through the newspapers for all of a week before the upcoming marriage of a member of the royal family replaced the wild speculations about what the public considered a cult murder.

 

Cult murder. One hundred and twenty dead cats had been found in the smoking ruins of the house, along with the skeletons of a few men and women. Most of the corpses had lain in the cellar of the house, their bones piled highest in the doorway.

 

How Crawford had managed to surprise the Felidae like that would forever remain a mystery. Schuldig had not asked him, and he had also not asked the surviving Felidae. The catkin had not left London yet - he sometimes saw them, sitting on rooftops, lingering close to the apartment, drifting in and out of the shadows deep at night - and knew that they would not answer him, anyway. What the guard had told him remained foremost on his mind.

 

_He is no one’s now. You killed him._

 

Not a single Felidae had come to the apartment door or sat before one of the windows. Not one of them had asked Schuldig about Farfarello when he met them on the streets at night; he recognized them now, their telepathic voices whispering at the edge of his consciousness. It was as though with the drinking of Farfarello’s blood, he had taken the Felidae’s inborn telepathy into himself and made it a part of his psyche. Farfarello echoed through him with every breath he took. The voices were faint and stale compared to what it sounded like when they had directly spoken to him, but Schuldig could hear _them_ now, too.

 

A new leader had been elected.

 

Farfarello’s offspring had died a fortnight after the fire, the maltreatment at Crawford’s hands claiming its tribute.

 

They were not leaving. Not yet.

 

There were only twelve left.

 

He kept this knowledge carefully to himself, although he spoke to Farfarello often, with more than words. Perhaps Farfarello already knew, and it made no difference anymore.

 

“You’re not very talkative tonight,” Wilfred remarked, rousing Schuldig from his thoughts. They were walking along the Strand now, amid mortals clad in thick winter garb. “Penny for your thoughts.”

 

“I’m just tired, Fred. I feel old.”

 

“That’s a very acute observation for someone who’s seen several centuries pass him by.”

 

“I can get rid of the feeling that the war has just begun.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Wilfred asked, a note of alarm in his voice. “It’s over. Do you think they will try to get revenge?”

 

He stopped walking and turned his face toward the sky, watching his breath trail upward in white clouds. Habitually, he scanned the rooftops, but with the smoke rising from the chimneys and the shadows cast between them, it was hard to tell if any Felidae were watching them now. He could not hear them, either. “No. He literally died for them the moment I Turned him. He’s just another Vampire to them now, if at all. Crawford was wrong when he said that they would come after him. It’s crazy, isn’t it? As their leader he seemed to be both their scapegoat and their king. As a Vampire, he’s nothing to them now.”

 

“Crawford seems to have been wrong about a great many things,” Wilfred said carefully, standing at Schuldig’s side. “I don’t know much about them, and I still don’t understand what exactly happened. Hell, I don’t think any of us really knows. But I think they have no reason to go after him.”

 

He listened harder and detected the faint, spidery-thin blanket of noise layered over the sounds that intruded on his ears: the footsteps, the carriages, the rustle of clothing against skin. There were words, yet they were too far away for him to grasp their meaning. “No,” he said finally, “They won’t.”

 

“Here’s your penny,” Wilfred handed him one.

 

Schuldig had to grin, once more despite it all.

 

\---

 

The apartment - and it was hard to think of it as his home now, with all that had happened - was strangely empty after all of Crawford’s belongings had been removed from the rooms. The temptation to move out entirely and leave behind all its memories had been plaguing Schuldig since the moment he knew what verdict he had to utter against Crawford. Yet Shaftesbury Avenue was his, as was the apartment. It was as simple as that.

 

He had no other place to go. He knew he would never leave London - a holiday, George and Wilfred kept nagging him, a holiday would be nice though and he had to agree with them; could not leave now, while the others were in their state of uproar. Perhaps it had taken all the recent happenings to make him aware of the responsibility he felt toward tem. They approved of his verdict. That, he thought, said it all.

 

The other choice would have been to kill Crawford. That, Schuldig knew, was something he could not have brought upon him, no matter how much he wished he could.

 

He walked up the stairs to the apartment, glancing out of the windows of the stairwell. It was nearing midnight. As he lost himself in the study of the streets and the people walking on the sidewalk, he saw the first true snowflakes trail down from the dark sky. If it kept snowing through the rest of the night, tomorrow morning’s sounds would be muffled by a white coat. It would bring back a little of the magic the writers and poets always said London had; Schuldig lived here, he knew what magic was, and he knew that London was nothing but a stage. A grand stage maybe, but it were the people _on_ the stage that made London what she was.

 

 _Final curtain calls are never the end_ , Christine whispered to him. He looked away from the window and saw her standing at the head of the stairs, dressed in a heavy woollen coat. Her hair was alight with a thousand small stars, as though she had just come inside from the rain. Schuldig knew those stars were snowflakes. _The play goes on long after the audience has left. Behind the stage._

 

He nodded at her words, knowing that she was nothing more but a figment of his imagination. She smiled at him and vanished through the wall, leaving behind the silence he was quickly coming accustomed to. Sighing heavily, he made it up the rest of the stairs and stood before the door to the apartment. Perhaps he needed that holiday more than he was aware of.

 

George stuck his head around the living room door as Schuldig walked into the apartment, an expression of curiosity on his face. “How did it go?”

 

“Ask Fred. I didn’t accompany him to the port. But he didn’t say a word through the entire council, just kept staring at me.” He hung his coat up and shook his head, combing the tangles out of his hair with his fingers. “How is he doing?”

 

“Didn’t say a word while you were gone. I don’t think he even _sees_ me. Or doesn’t want to see me, however you want to put it.” Looking back over his shoulder into the living room, George stepped toward Schuldig and quietly said, “Listen, something needs to be done. The others will _freak_ when they see him, if they haven’t already. You say he hunts? He feeds?”

 

Schuldig nodded.

 

“Are you sure all his right with his head?”

 

He heard the things George had _not_ said as clearly as though the other Vampire had written them down for him, blinking at the fear, the uneasiness his usually brash friend was feeling when he was in the company of Farfarello. Over the last two weeks - ever since he had taken Farfarello’s blood - the ability to hear the thoughts of everyone around him had gotten stronger and stronger. Schuldig did not know yet what to make of it. He had not mentioned it to anyone. Seeing Christine all the time was bad enough. After all that had happened, the confession that he was now hearing things would not go over well with any of the others.

 

“I don’t know, George,” he said finally, “He doesn’t speak to me.”

 

“Do you want me to stay?”

 

“No. Wilfred is waiting downstairs.”

 

He locked the door behind the other Vampire and slowly walked into the living room, eyes automatically seeking out the empty bookshelves. Half of their storage space had been taken up by Crawford’s things. There was a lot of furniture he could get rid off now. Turning to the silent figure sitting on the couch, he said,

 

“Good evening.”

 

Farfarello’s state could be described as catatonic if Schuldig had not seen him hunt and feed. He had not said a word since they brought him here from Green Park and tended to his wounds; the scratches and internal damage Schuldig suspected he had healed quickly. Within two days, Farfarello’s skin was once more hale. Only the scars he already had had, on his face, his chest, his arms and stomach, remained. They were fainter now, nothing more but raised lines coloured slightly darker than the rest of his skin.

 

The left eye was a different story. It was a lost case. Thankfully, the eyelids had been saved from damage, but they had to take out the eyeball, which had been squashed by a punch. Farfarello had taken the procedure with stoic silence, only the tenseness of his shoulders revealing that he felt something. Schuldig had bought an eye patch for him. He wore it because Schuldig had put it on him; he had the sneaking suspicion that Farfarello did not care if everyone around him shrank from his sight, this morbid destruction of something beautiful.

 

Schuldig had bought clothes for him as well, dragging him to a tailor one early evening, George and Wilfred accompanying them. His first desire - to see Farfarello dressed splendidly for once - had faded quickly, made way for dullness and a sense of guilt that had remained with him henceforth.

 

 _I’m not a doll!_ Farfarello had protested without ever saying a word, without looking at Schuldig. _I won’t break!_

 

The tailor, after much fussing and discussing, had finally acquiesced and measured, grumbling about having to use leather instead of the fine silks and woven cloths he had in his collection. Schuldig paid him enough to ensure exquisite work. Farfarello now owned three pairs of pants, a few shirts, a coat, and a pair of boots. The clothes were not much different from what he had worn before.

 

Deep down, Schuldig knew that he was trying to make up for what he had done to him.

 

Deeper down, he did not regret anything, and especially not the creation of Farfarello the Vampire.

 

Farfarello sat cross-legged on the couch, looking out of the open window before him. He did not move as Schuldig walked around the couch and sat down next to him.

 

“I banned him from London today, in case you’re interested. Of course you are.” He detected the faint note of curiosity running like a steady current beneath the tranquil silence of Farfarello’s mindscape. Reading _his_ thoughts was exceedingly easy now. The path into Farfarello’s mind, opened when Schuldig took his blood, had not yet closed. Perhaps it never would. “He should be on his way to America now.”

 

Farfarello moved his hands in his lap, drawing Schuldig’s attention to something that lay on his palm. It took him a moment to realize that he was looking at teeth - small, white canines, broken out at the roots, barely larger than the nail of Farfarello’s small finger.

 

He swallowed, fighting queasiness. “Are these...?” Farfarello knew, then, that his son was dead. He looked away from the teeth, his glance falling on the open window. A few errant snowflakes were trailing in, melting on the carpet. “Who brought them?”

 

“Pavel. It is a custom.”

 

Hearing the toneless voice surprised him, as he had become so accustomed to Farfarello’s silence over the last two weeks. Looking at the side of his face that showed the eye patch, Schuldig wondered what Farfarello would do with the teeth of the kitten. Wear them around his neck, one more reminder of the past?

 

“You should not have intervened,” Farfarello went on, looking down at his hands. “You should have let me kill him. It would have been _over_.”

 

“It is over now. Brad Crawford was my companion for so long, even with what he did I couldn’t just let him die. He is gone from the city, and he will not return.”

 

Farfarello turned on the couch, closing his fingers around the teeth so hard that a few drops of blood dripped onto his leg as his palm was pierced. Schuldig had looked at him often since bringing him to Shaftesbury Avenue, yet he was not yet accustomed to the sight of that one amber eye burning into him with a Vampire’s intensity behind it. The pupil had not returned to its normal, round form. It would forever remain a pointed oval, hinting at what Farfarello had been and might still be. There was no telling what all had changed, what had been deducted, added, _mutated_.

 

“What makes you think I’ll stay here?” Now Farfarello moved closer, the hand clutching the teeth between them, so close that Schuldig could feel his breath on his face. He reached up with his free hand, brought his fingers to Schuldig’s cheek, and trailed one fingertip down the elegant curve of the bone, a hint of fingernail scratching down the skin sending a ripple of shudders down Schuldig’s spine. He tensed as he felt the definitely hostile emotions welling up inside Farfarello, different from what his thoughts ‘felt’ and ‘sounded’ like, seeming to Schuldig like a swarm of hornets settling all over him but not stinging him...yet. “You’ve cost me everything. _Everything_.”

 

The fingertip became a finger became a hand grasping his chin in a tight, hurtful grip. He reached up to push the hand away, and the hornets were stinging now, making it hard to concentrate...hard to breathe as Farfarello flung his other arm out and back, driving his fist into Schuldig’s stomach. Doubling over on the couch, Schuldig gasped, fingers scrabbling on Farfarello’s chest. He did not know what was worse - the gut-clenching pain in his stomach, or the sudden wave of _hate_ washing over him like a furious flood crashing against a defenceless shore. The onslaught broke into his thoughts and scattered them, leaving him struggling against emotions that were not his own.

 

He hit the floor before he was aware of falling from the couch and lay on his side, clutching his head. His vision doubling and tripling, he saw Farfarello’s boots in front of his face, felt hands on his body roughly turning him over onto his back.

 

“I should kill _you_ , now,” Farfarello growled, bent over him, “Crawford murdered my people but you killed _me_!”

 

“You’re still alive!” Schuldig gasped. The hornets retreated from his head, leaving it throbbing and feeling raw. Farfarello seemed to know exactly what he was doing, what he needed to _think_ to attack Schuldig - had probably gone through the same when the telepathy kicked in, he thought. It _hurt_. “If the other Felidae now go after Crawford that’s their business, but you wouldn’t have survived that fight! Either that, or that kitten would have died! Probably both!”

 

“I can’t even hear them anymore!” Farfarello yelled on top of his lungs. He sprang to his feet and backed away, pointing a shaking finger at the open window. “I can’t hear anything anymore! Not you! Not them! Nothing! I’d rather be dead than be this!”

 

He managed to get up without throwing up, feeling the world shiver in its foundations as he crawled onto the couch and leaned against it, breathing hard. Now his ears hurt from Farfarello’s yelling. For a long moment, he revelled in the wonderful sensation of having a concrete pain to focus on, not the phantom aches his mind experienced. “I’m losing you, am I not?” He turned his head, even that slight jostling causing his vision to swim. “That’s what it boils down to, no?”

 

“You never _had_ me, Schuldig. I’ve listened to you. I know what you dreamed, what you _wanted_.” Standing against the far wall, his arms slung around his middle, Farfarello glared at him. “You understood nothing. Still don’t. You couldn’t leave anything alone.”

 

No, he could not. And it did not matter anymore if it had been his curiosity, his interest in Farfarello, or both, that turned him down the path he had now walked to its end. He ached at the thought of Farfarello leaving. He had fought so hard to keep him...and used the wrong means to reach that end.

 

“Will you go after Crawford?”

 

“I have no reason to. _They_ have no reason to. All the old ones are dead. They might go after him for what he did in Mayfair, but the old score doesn’t count anymore. With what you’ve done you erased everything.” Footsteps, coming closer, Farfarello walking behind the couch now, toward the door. Schuldig closed his eyes. “I have no reason to stay here anymore, either.”

 

“Not even for me?”

 

He picked up on the revulsion - no, despair? Exasperation? at his question and knew the answer before Farfarello voiced it. “Mutual interest, Schuldig. _Interest_.” Farfarello sighed. “Did you ever really _listen_ to me?”

 

“I am listening to you now,” he said, and into the deafening silence that followed his words he whispered, “London will always be there for you.”

 

He knew he was saying it to an empty room.

 

\---

 

Winter came fast and hard, demanding its tribute from the Docklands, the East End, and all the other dark nooks of London first. The newspapers ran horror stories about people who were found frozen to death, clutching at thin blankets. Someone broke through the ice on the Thames and was found maimed by the river, half in, half out of the water, and that story was particularly gruesome. Fearing to break through the ice as well, no one dared to cut the corpse out. It stayed where it was for several days before Queen Victoria herself, in what was termed ‘exasperation’, ordered a rescue crew.

 

He had his sanctuary, warm and dry, high above the screaming city below. He had his little trips to nearby pubs and theatres, his fire, his books, his familiar hell. Occupied with translating a second copy of the work that had been destroyed when the “Raven” burned down - the author of ‘Revolutionary Theories in Women’s Rights’ expressed her deepest regrets for his loss of a good friend - Schuldig nearly missed Christmas.

 

He told the other Vampires that he needed to recover from everything, that he needed time to think things over. That had not been a lie, but it had not been the entire truth, either. Following Farfarello’s disappearance from Shaftesbury Avenue and London altogether, Schuldig learned by painful experience that his newly awakened telepathy seemed to increase the more time he spent among the _thinking_. At times, it became hard to make a difference between the thoughts of the others and his own.

 

At times it became so bad that he thought about ripping into everyone around him. He had never known how blatantly _mundane_ it all could be, London’s daily life as it happened around him. How mundane, how brutal...how tiring.

 

It was enough to drive anyone insane. How Farfarello had been able to stand it for centuries was beyond Schuldig’s understanding.

 

Early on Christmas Eve, someone knocked at the front door to the apartment.

 

He had spent a good deal of time on rearranging the furniture and buying new things to put into the now empty rooms Crawford had occupied. The apartment did not seem nearly as empty anymore; only sometimes, early in the morning or just before he woke, did Schuldig think that he could still hear him moving from room to room, that he could smell his cologne and hear his voice. Those were the times he wished he could turn back the time.

 

As he went to open the door, he picked up on two trains of thoughts; George’s, vowing to some strange deity that he _would_ take Schuldig out for a hunt among company and if he had to drag him screaming and kicking by the hair; Wilfred’s, wishing for George to shut the hell up before he seriously thought about hurting him.

 

Telepathy had one good thing to it: he could always pretend he was not home if there were unwanted guests standing before his door. George and Wilfred though, with their constant visits and true concern, had grown very close to him over the last weeks.

 

“Good evening,” he said as he opened the door and stepped aside to let them in, “What brings you here on this dark and dreadful night?”

 

“Someone’s got his humour back,” George said with a lifted eyebrow. He wore a black, floor-length coat that was nearly white from snow. “Let me say, it suits you mightily.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Wilfred muttered, unwinding a shawl from around his mouth.

 

He could not help it; his friends’ good spirits were affecting him. They traded news as he put on his coat and boots, Schuldig listening more than telling. He had nothing to tell. He learned that Eliza, Theodore’s widow, was thinking about rebuilding the “Raven” as a pub like the “Bear at Arms”. There were minor concerns among the Vampires of London. With Theodore, they had lost their best forger of documents, which would become a problem unless they found a suitable replacement. That was something Schuldig would have to deal with once the New Year rolled around.

 

George and Wilfred had taken the news of Farfarello’s departure with equal parts relief and sadness. Schuldig found their now useless willingness to put up with the ex-Felidae for his sake endearing; he understood their relief all too well. He still wanted Farfarello to return, yet the rational part of his mind kept listing the disadvantages, the dangers, and he knew it was probably for the best. He had neither heard nor seen anything of Farfarello since the day he walked out of the apartment. It was anyone’s guess if he was still in England at all.

 

If Farfarello went after Crawford now, it was out of Schuldig’s hand. He did not wish for it to happen - had, in fact, even entertained wild thoughts about going after Crawford to make sure that he had reached America safely, that Farfarello had not killed him - but he knew that there was nothing he could do anymore. He had played his part in this drama; the curtain call had come, and Christine had been right: the play went on behind the stage.

 

Behind his eyes.

 

The three Vampires walked through London’s snow-covered streets, headed for nowhere in particular, and Schuldig learned that he could forget about all that had happened when they settled around a table in a small pub near Blackfriars Bridge. Ordering ale they would not touch, they spent a long time joking about the other guests, picking out their choice victims or those that interested them. Schuldig knew that he could not stay all that long - the swamp of thoughts, wishes, desires that was quickly becoming familiar whenever he was around the thinking, had started to press against his mind as soon as he walked in the door. For now, though, it was at a bearable level. Perhaps it was the season. Schuldig leaned back against the cherry wood panelling, eyes languidly roaming the interior of the pub while George and Wilfred discussed the clothing styles of the women.

 

At length, he closed his eyes and began to listen with his mind. It was not a conscious decision; it happened ever so often now that he felt his mind begin to drift away from what was happening around him. He found it easier to concentrate on the _voices_ if he did not see their origins; he knew he would need years to come to bearable grounds with his newfound ability.

 

Time was one thing Schuldig had in abundance.

 

As he listened, he became aware of a rising anxiety within him. It came out of nowhere, no cause whatsoever, but refused to go away as he tried to submerse himself in the calmness around him again.

 

_Schuldig._

 

He opened his eyes. Farfarello stood before him - no, _crouched_ before him, on the table amid ale mugs and candles. A thin halo of lights surrounded him, fiercely adding to the shine of his golden eye. The other one, covered by the eye patch, was like an abyss sucking in the illumination around him. He was dressed in the clothes Schuldig had bought for him, but now tiny silver disks had been woven into the leather lacing up the outsides of his legs, and the leather looked worn and soft. Arms and chest bare, light glinting off melted snow, dripping from his tousled hair, he stared at Schuldig and raised his arm, a long, viciously curved blade clutched in his hand. In his other hand he held Crawford’s head.

 

_You’re next in line._

 

The scene was so surreal that Schuldig could only stare, blinking furiously as the hand holding the blade rose higher and higher before it began its descend.

 

Blood dripped from the ragged stump of Crawford’s severed neck, forming little sinister pools on the table. It dripped into one of the ale mugs and off the edge of the table. Schuldig turned his head and saw George and Wilfred, chatting next to him. They did not see Farfarello. They did not hear the swish-swish sound of air as Farfarello’s hand raced past Schuldig’s face and swung backward, taking the same course once more.

 

He saw blood spurt onto the table and splash against Farfarello’s chest, knew it was his own, and started to scream, surprised that he could. Farfarello had severed all arteries, all flesh, all life.

 

He woke, fingers clenched around his neck, searching for a wound that was not there. Deafening silence around him and too many eyes staring at him; most of all he felt George’s and Wilfred’s stares as he gasped for air, looking around wildly.

 

“Schu, what...?”

 

He gave George a haunted stare and rose, so hastily that he nearly toppled the table over. An ale mug shattered on the ground as he stormed toward the exit and raced down the street, as fast as his feet would carry him. He did not stop running until he reached trees, and silence, and cold snow in his face as he tripped over something and fell.

 

A dream. He had dreamed!

 

Shaken, Schuldig sat up, shivering as snow began to melt on his skin. He had no idea where he was - trees all around him, the ground beneath them covered with snow. It seeped through his clothes, into his mind; now that he was more or less alone he did not hear the voices anymore. They remained a faint, distant whisper somewhere beyond the trees, there, but easy to ignore. Wrapping his arms around himself, he pressed his face against his knees and listened to his heart hammering in his chest.

 

“I’m losing my mind...”

 

He had no idea how long he stayed there beneath the trees, but when he rose his clothes were stiff and his skin felt frozen. Shakily, he made his way toward the nearest lights, and to his surprise he learned that he had run straight to Mayfair. Standing at the edge of Green Park, he stared at the houses, their sugar-coat toppings and white smoke clouds a bizarre contrast to what his mind told him this place should look like: charred and grimy, screams echoing down the streets.

 

A graveyard.

 

His feet carried him along streets that had nothing in common with what his mind insisted they were; he looked at the shuttered windows and the light of fire and candles shining through them, leaving patches of gold in the snow. As he reached the house, he braced himself against the sight. He had not set foot in Mayfair after the fire.

 

Yet the sight of the blackened ruin was strangely calming. The missing roof, black-hole-windows and coaly walls - all of this was softened, somehow, by the snow laying over everything. Schuldig blew warm breath into his cupped hands as he walked closer.

 

“You looked better last time I saw you,” said the shadow that detached itself from the askew pillars that had once held the entrance door. It was one of the guards who had stood at Farfarello’s sides during the fight with Crawford. He wore a thick jacket and heavy boots, and he left large footprints in the pristine snow as he walked down the stairs toward Schuldig. “You heard my call.”

 

Schuldig did not know what to make of this meeting. With a feeling of trepidation, he wondered what the other wanted...and if he was alone. “Why did you call me here?”

 

“To say good-bye.” The guard stopped an arm’s length away from Schuldig and stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking down at the smaller Vampire with a look that he could only term ‘wistful’. “Why else would I call for you?”

 

“I don’t know - to kill me? Sending me an image of Farfarello slitting my throat doesn’t really leave a good impression.”

 

The guard chuckled and gently shook his head, “It was the only thing I could think of. My father really has a way of sticking in someone’s memory, does he not?”

 

Father? Schuldig blinked. His surprise showed on his face, for the guard went on, “Yes, he is - was my father. That is why I am here. The others don’t know. They shun this place. Too many of us died here.”

 

Effortlessly, Schuldig picked up his name. He had not even tried to listen to the other’s thoughts, just concentrated on him. Perhaps Marc wanted him to know. “You’re here to ask me if I know where he is.”

 

Marc nodded at that statement. “And to say good-bye.”

 

“The Felidae are leaving London?”

 

“Yes. Farfarello brought us here because he was looking for those three Vampires. He got two. The last one was sent away by you.” Marc did not elaborate how he knew of that, nor did he think of it. Schuldig was by now deliberately trying to listen to his thoughts alone, but he picked up nothing that really interested him. “With your intervention, Farfarello was the last Felidae who could settle the score. With his death -”

 

“He isn’t dead, you know?”

 

“To us, he is. He’s not Felidae anymore. We care little for the affairs of the others as long as they don’t intrude on our territory.” Marc shrugged and kicked at the snow before his feet. “Perhaps that is why my father was so...irritated by you.”

 

Irritated? That made Schuldig feel like a worthless piece of shit. “I don’t know where he is. He left London, and I haven’t seen him since.”

 

Marc nodded. “It seems fitting that it should end this way. He led this clan for over a thousand years. We will remember him the way he was, not the way he is now.”

 

A thousand years. Farfarello had never told him for how long exactly...Schuldig closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling the guilt well up inside him along with the anger. A thousand years, and with just one action born out of selfishness and despair rather than contemplation and decision, he had managed to wipe all those years away. He could not help the sting of anger at Marc’s reverent words and again thought how little he liked the customs of the Felidae. “Don’t speak of him as though he died!”

 

“I am speaking of him as I have been taught by him,” Marc said matter-of-factly. “Though I wish I could feel remorse, I cannot; the Farfarello I know, my father I know, has died. He is not of _us_ anymore, he is of yours, and you are not us.” He gave Schuldig a measuring glance. “Don’t expect absolution from me, Vampire.” He sighed. “Our customs may seem cruel to you, but they’re not. You just don’t know them.”

 

“The more I see of them the less I like them. I have nothing more to tell you.” Turning from Marc, Schuldig began to walk back down the street, calling back over his shoulder, “Good bye.”

 

He expected to be called back, but all that followed him down the street was the deceptive silence of snow falling on Mayfair. As he reached the corner, he looked back over his shoulder. Marc was gone. Schuldig glanced at the ruin of the house for long minutes. Absolution? He sneered at the word. He had achieved nothing of the sort. What Marc had intended with his meeting was unclear, but Schuldig knew one thing: he was glad to know that the Felidae were leaving London.

 

With that thought held firmly in mind, Schuldig returned to Shaftesbury Avenue.

 

\---

 

Vampires rarely die under violent circumstances brought unto them by someone else. They die of boredom or broken hearts. They despair over the mercilessly grinding wheels of time that carry everything they know with them and out of reach.

 

Eliza died in the spring of the year 1887; almost a full year after events had been set in motion their aftershocks still rippled through the Vampires of London now and then. Theodore’s widow was not able to cope with the loss of her long-time mate, but she kept her anguish, her tears and her utter loneliness to herself and did not share it with any of the others. She waited until the workers started to rebuild the ground walls of the ‘Raven’ and went to the apothecary one late afternoon, where she bought a pound of rat poison.

 

‘For the rats in my cellar’, she told the doctor behind the counter. ‘There are so many, I don’t know how else to get rid of them.’

 

Schuldig knew about her plan for a week and listened to her rehearse those few words at the last meeting she attended, still dressed in black, sitting by her lonesome at a table in the ‘Bear at Arms’. She repeated them in her mind, over and over again. He fought a bitter fight with himself, trying to decide if he should intervene. In the end, he decided not to.

 

He was not like _them_. It was not his right to decide over someone’s life or death.

 

They burned what was left of Eliza and left the grounds upon which the “Raven” had stood to the mercy of the city authorities. None of the others had an interest in seeing it rebuilt; times were changing for them, they all felt it in their bones, the very blood rushing through their veins.

 

George found words for it one night, sitting in Schuldig’s living room with a book on his lap. “It’s like a disease, Schu. It spreads among us as soon as even _one_ of us has been infected, and then there’s no way to stop it.”

 

Schuldig doubted that, but he doubted a lot of things lately.

 

He had, after much contemplation, broken into Christine’s apartment in Mayfair’s west end, finding something he had not anticipated. The stench greeting him as he walked through the large rooms originated from two heavily decomposed cats he found in her bathtub. Fur and flesh disintegrating and dripping from the bones, Schuldig had taken one long look at the carcasses before he fled the apartment and stumbled down the stairs, nearly bowling into a woman who stepped out of the door on the ground floor. She eyed him with undisguised suspicion as she asked, “Is Madame de Chanel back from her journey?”

 

“Journey...?”

 

“She left a few months ago, oh, September or October last year. Ever since then, there has been this terrible _stench_ coming from above!” The woman sniffed, fiddling with the straps of her bonnet. “I’ve complained to the owner of the house, but he never responds to my letters. My daughter is already becoming sick from that smell.”

 

It took him a week to find the information he was looking for. The records kept at the city’s supervisory board were just barely up to date, but he found an owner’s certificate at last, stuffed carelessly into a crumbling folder, that confirmed his suspicion.

 

The house Christine de Chanel’s apartment was in had been owned by William Darcy.

 

He mulled this discovery over and remembered what Crawford told him on the night he brought Farfarello to their home. Something about Christine strolling around the Docklands and the East End of London had always rubbed Schuldig the wrong way; now he knew that there were a lot of things that had simply escaped his attention while he had been occupied with Farfarello. He realized that he had been looking for answers in the wrong place.

 

Christine had not been strolling around the Docklands and the East End out of curiosity. She had been hunting cats. Now he also understood why he had found her corpse in such proximity to that of the dead Felidae’s; Farfarello must have come upon her just after she had killed the Felidae and decided to exact his revenge then and there. It must have been an added bonus for him to know that she was one of the Vampires he had been looking for in the first place.

 

Yet Farfarello had always insisted he had not touched Christine. It also did not explain why Farfarello had sought out Schuldig and led him to her corpse. And why had Farfarello not recognized Crawford as the third Vampire? He had known William’s and Christine’s faces, or at least their names.

 

“Who knows what went on in that head of his,” Wilfred said as Schuldig shared his insights with him. With Eliza’s death three weeks in the past, they had been spending more and more time away from the Bear at Arms, too depressed by the decidedly morbid atmosphere that held a tight leash on the others. “Let me say this, Schu: William, Crawford and Christine all lied to you. Maybe not William as much as the other two, but they all did. What if Christine and Crawford went hunting together? What if Crawford then went crazy and killed her, maybe to _start_ everything that happened afterwards? I wouldn’t put it past him, now that I know a bit more.”

 

Sucking on his pipe, Wilfred regarded Schuldig with a contemplating, calm gaze, and Schuldig inwardly sighed at his friend’s thoughts. They were mostly centred on how he seemed unable to let go of something everyone else was trying very hard to forget. There was also a faint tinge of annoyance mixed in with it all; Wilfred thought he had spent enough time thinking, worrying about everything, and it was time that Schuldig found his way back to his old self and left the past where it belonged: in the past. It was a sentiment Schuldig could have agreed with wholeheartedly had his _heart_ not insisted he stayed with the past for a little longer. “Then why did Crawford kill Theo? Theo had nothing to do with all of this.”

 

“Perhaps not. But from what you tell me, Theodore was the only one out of all of us who knew something about what happened in Ireland, all those centuries ago. It must have scared Crawford to learn that there was someone who knew about it. Look at how he went about things - Crawford never planned to stay here after all was said and done. He used your rather obvious fascination with Farfarello to stay out of your view and went about what he had in mind, and when it came to killing Theodore he knew you’d start looking in other places, not just in that house in Mayfair. That was when he attacked _you_ to keep you out of the way long enough.” Wilfred gave a long, suffering sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance with the entire affair now, and went on, “It is all rather simple, Schuldig, but you refuse to see the simplicity and look for more complicated answers.”

 

He cringed at the words but managed to hide it, hearing Farfarello’s voice telling him almost the same thing in the back of his mind. “But Theodore never mentioned a third Vampire. Theodore only knew about Christine and William - why not Crawford? He was even in the same _room_ with us when Theo told me about it all.”

 

Wilfred shrugged. “Whether or not Theo knew about Crawford doesn’t really matter, I think. You’re still looking for someone to blame everything on, Schu, and I think I have the right to say that you’re doing it because of one thing only.”

 

He felt cold and looked away, at the flickering fire. “And what would that be?”

 

“Do I really have to say it?”

 

That question kept echoing in Schuldig’s mind long after Wilfred had left for his own home, leaving Schuldig to the silence and the familiarity of his own thoughts. No. Wilfred did not have to say it. He wandered through the rooms and opened the closet in his bedroom, running his fingers over the black clothes that lay folded on the topmost shelf. Farfarello had not taken them with him as he left. He had only taken what he wore on his body, as though he did not want anything unnecessary to remind him of the Vampire.

 

Yet Farfarello had left something behind, something that Schuldig suspected would stay with him until the day he died. Voices and whispers, thoughts and dreams, belonging to everybody else, slowly seeping into Schuldig’s core with every breath he took. It was a gift he was not sure he should appreciate, but knew he could not get rid of.

 

They were there now, along with his memories and desires.

 

Schuldig had not found a satisfying answer, neither in the case of Christine’s and Theodore’s death nor in Crawford’s role in all of this, or in his personal affairs with Farfarello. The last one weighted on his mind the most, bringing with it all the desire, the want, and finally, Farfarello’s refusal. That, Schuldig knew, hurt and occupied him the most.

 

But Farfarello had left London, and Schuldig had banned Crawford, and with that the only two people he could have gotten any answers from where gone.

 

Somewhere, someone was probably laughing about it all.

 

It would take him a long time to come to terms with that knowledge, but Schuldig once again reminded himself that time was one thing he had in abundance.

 

He walked back into the living room and opened one of the windows, looking out over the nearest houses and snowy street below. This was it, then. His stage. London and all the city’s streets, all the city’s monsters and tragedies and lies - all his. The curtain call on this act had fallen. Somehow, though, Schuldig had missed his cue to leave the stage together with all the others.

 

He sighed as he leaned on the windowsill, and thought, _Well. The play goes on behind the stage._

 

THE END

 

Finished 2003-07-24.

 

**-+-+-+-+-+-+-+**

**FOOTNOTES**

 

[1] “So tear me open, pour me out, there’s things inside that scream and shout” - lines from Metallica’s ‘Until it sleeps’.


End file.
